Illustrations
by Mockorange7
Summary: Less than a month before the end of his sentence, Neal takes on a dangerous assignment against Peter's wishes.  In the end, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Less than a month before the end of his sentence, Neal takes on a dangerous assignment against Peter's wishes. As usual, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Originally written for my round one hurt/comfort bingo card, as well as for the anonymous kink meme, for a h/c fic inspired by the illustration in the link.

Spoilers: Nothing specific really-this was started after I'd only seen season 1, and was horribly new to the fandom, so be aware that this is now rather AU. Sara is not in it-you may feel free to believe that either she didn't exist (she didn't, when I started this), or that she and Neal broke up amicably (and she's now in Tahiti being fabulous, so can't visit, although she texts Neal from time to time), and are simply no longer together. I am not sure I can work her in at this point, so it may be best not to try.

Warnings: References to sexual assault and violence, although not described in detail. Also please note that this is unbeta'd and incomplete as yet.

Pairings: None really. References to Neal/Kate, and Peter and his wife are rather more affectionate with Neal than I would be with a convicted felon I worked with, but. You may (and likely do) consider that as you will.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for fun, and because like Neal, I have no self-control and covet other people's things.

A/N: Thanks to the prompter who inspired this. Unbeta'd. Comments, positive or negative, particularly if I've messed up the canon, are always very much appreciated. Thanks for reading.

* * *

To be honest, in the end, Neal hadn't hated being incarcerated as much as he ought. He didn't like the institution, certainly. The loss of dignity, of freedom, of wearing decent _clothes_—these things grated, as they ought, as they meant to.

But there were also some perks. He was a con man, used to evaluating situations, and he couldn't deny there were perks. He had his own cell-Peter had made sure of it-a structured routine, a wardrobe provided by the state. He even had friends, of a sort. The institution-supermax, expensive, a jewel of correctional services-held many inmates, including several that he told himself were sort of like him. Not exactly, of course, but there was Ben, who was in for homicide, who was a rap artist and had the soul of a poet. There was Tony, in for real estate fraud (albeit rumoured to have gang affiliations), who liked Beethoven and Schubert and had been an accountant, a long time ago. There was Robert, who liked fast cars and beautiful women-too much, and in all the wrong ways, if the gossip was to be believed-but the man liked his clothes and was well-read. There was Raju, who confided that he could have been an investment banker, and who was ever obsessed with good wine and fine dining. The list went on, but there were those with whom he could talk about art and poetry, the food wasn't great but it was available and kept him alive, and he had a place to sleep every night. It wasn't anything to write home about—not that he had a home to write to, except for Kate—but it wasn't the worst place he'd ever been, either.

The holding cell, on the other hand—the Gateway, they'd called it, minimum security and with little funding-he'd been put in before his transfer, after the explosion that had killed Kate—that was a totally different story. He didn't want to go. He'd heard the stories. But no one cared.

He was there a little over six weeks. During that time, he spent nineteen days in the infirmary. There, were, apparently, innumerable delays—including one when he'd been there just under three weeks, just after Peter had been cleared and so even he believed he might have been transferred out, but for the fact that he'd been in the thrice damned infirmary at the time, and so he missed his chance. And his was-apparently-considered a priority transfer.

Everyone knew, of course, that all the new inmates at the Gateway ended up in the infirmary, routinely, for different reasons—the big guys for instigating fights to establish their dominance, the pedophiles for being beaten, the gang boys as part of being re-initiated. The guards at the Gateway were too few to manage, and didn't waste their resources on trying to interfere in the general inmate shakedowns. Neal was young, clean, in for pansy crimes as opposed to violent ones (depending on the prevailing inmate theory about the plane)-and he'd been an FBI snitch. Not only was he grieving and distracted, as an added bonus, he was too damned pretty for his own good. It was clear, from the moment he'd arrived, that he'd end up hurt. The guards, some of them, were kind—tried to warn him, keep an eye on him, told him how to take precautions in the showers, at nights. But it didn't matter. He did what they said, tried to be hyper-vigilant and slept like a soldier (when he slept at all), but he knew it wouldn't matter in the end, and so did they.

The first time he was in the prison hospital for two days. There had been three of them, and Neal had never been with a guy before. But the infirmary was no sanctuary. The doctor—Dr. Crawley, whom none of the inmates liked but how could they protest-kept him an extra day for "observation", and had him make routine follow up appointments. He refused treatment where he could, but the doctor began threatening him with prescribing some of the more potent psychotropic drugs if he didn't comply, and Neal wasn't sure that he would have the right to refuse. No one in this world could be trusted—not the guards, not the inmates, not the medical staff. No one. There were no rules in this world, nothing but chaos and ugliness and horror. Every second he spent there was a second too long, and the day his transfer came through nearly cried in relief. In the weeks he spent there, he lost thirty-four pounds. It took him years to gain it all back.

Years later, whenever he had nightmares, the chipped paint of the Gateway's whitewashed hospital walls and the smell of antiseptic were usually the set dressing.

* * *

Years later, he was three weeks to the end of his contract, three weeks to freedom, and they had another mission. One which involved an elaborate conspiracy, blah blah blah, and one in which they needed a young agent as bait.

The mark was Arthur Rodgers, respected business man. He had built an empire out of the legitimate import and export of textiles, and the not so legitimate import and export of antiquities. He specialized in the ancients—early Greek and Roman pieces—coins, artifacts, tablets.

He also liked his partners young, gorgeous, and male.

Kaito was running the operation, and wanted Caffrey. It was right up Caffrey's alley—and, as Kaito told Peter, Caffrey would make the perfect bait. And he'd already approached Caffrey, and Caffrey had already offered to be the bait, when it was suggested to him.

Peter blew a gasket. Kaito had no right to approach his C.I. without his permission. None. And the mission was too dangerous, which is exactly what he told Neal when he announced to him that he wasn't going to allow it. Whatever Hughes said.

"Peter, be reasonable. Hughes has already authorized it."

"You should have asked me first!"

"Honestly, I thought he had. I thought you were okay with it. Listen, it's one last op. What's the issue? You don't think I'm gorgeous enough to fit the bill?"

"Neal, it's dangerous. This guy … he kills. He has no issue killing."

"I've been shot at before, Peter."

They kept arguing, and in the end Peter stormed off in a rage, but Neal knew he'd given in. What choice did he have? And what choice did Neal have, either? He did not want to go back to the Gatehouse—and particularly not after he'd continued to be an FBI snitch-ever. He'd had difficulty adjusting to life as the FBI's company man, at first, sure, but for the past three and a half years (give or take) he hadn't refused an assignment. He hadn't been late, or difficult, or anything. He wasn't going to mess that up now.

As for the op, it was part of his job, now, and for the next few weeks—afterwards, well, after was a different story, and again, not something he wanted to think about right then. Besides, Peter was the only one that didn't like it, but over the years, Peter had changed, and so had their relationship. Peter wasn't unbiased any more, so at this point, he didn't care what Peter thought, he didn't care what Peter said. It might be dangerous, but so was going back to prison, and if Peter couldn't understand that … well, Peter could protest about the mission, but Neal knew that Peter wouldn't, couldn't protect him if from going back if came to it, whatever he might say.

He couldn't, remember, now, when he'd become involved with Peter and Elizabeth, when he let them sort of adopt him as a kind of pet, or kid brother, or something. Couldn't remember. All he knew was that he loved Peter and Elizabeth, he did. Absolutely. And Peter … cared about him. Neal knew he did—five years ago, he wouldn't have cared that Neal was being put in a dangerous position. Cowboy up, Neal, he'd have said. Now, the thought of deliberately placing Neal in danger drove him nuts, even if it was his job. Even the other agents noticed and teased.

Then again, four years ago … four years ago … Neal hadn't known how horrible prison could be.

And now there was less than a month left on his contract. Less than a month, but even so, Neal wouldn't risk that chance. Not again. Because soon, soon he'd be free.

He wasn't even sure, anymore (Kate was gone, his old life was gone, and now he had Peter and Elizabeth and their puppy and June and Cindy-but Kate, Kate who'd loved him even at his worst, who wasn't bound to him by a tracker or a radius and $700 a month or even a ring, Kate who'd taken little more than a bottle and a promise was gone in a blazing gust of fire and broken promises and-and-) exactly what that freedom meant, but he'd deal with it when he got there.

He just had to get there first.

So Neal agreed. Kaito and his guys—Luis, Smith, Johannsen—explained the intel, got him suited up. And he was charming, and convincing. He met Rodgers about 45 minutes into the party, wearing Byron's fourth-best suit and sipping on cabernet while he pretended he was young and broke and interested in a shriveled old man with a pot belly who smelled of gin and tobacco.

He let Rodgers maul him, that night, but he drew the line at anything below the waist.

On the second day, he went back. And Neal thought it might be fair to say that this might be the assignment he hated most, in his almost five years of working as a consultant.

For three days, he avoided Peter—Peter who was snappy and pissy and not something that Neal, with his frayed nerves and shaking hands could deal with along with the op-and spent his time flirting with Rodgers. He forced himself to be attentive and inquisitive and innocuous. Rodgers took him to the opera and back to his place after, where Neal sweet-talked his way out of anything more than a deep-throated kiss.

"Come on, pretty," Rodgers said. "We're having a good time. You know how much fun I can be, now it's your turn …"

"Ah," replied Neal. "A little mystery is good for the soul. I'm sure a man like you didn't get where you are without a little patience, huh? And oh, there are so many other things we can do … "

He couldn't help it. He knew it might have been suspicious, but he couldn't, he couldn't …

The very next day, he managed to find himself alone in Rodgers' office. The computer had decent security, he'd give it that—but he managed. He discovered the name of Rodgers' shell company, a partial client list, and almost had the location of one of his warehouses …

But Rodgers didn't get where he was by being a fool. He looked up, and Rodgers was standing in the doorway.

He was captured and beaten, with demands to know who he was and for whom he was working—which he couldn't tell them, of course, without signing his own death warrant. He was confident, though, that Peter would come get him. And he was also confident that these clowns could do nothing worse to him than had already been done.

They were slow coming to get him, he thought, as Rodgers' goons beat on him for what seemed like hours with fists and feet and sticks. When the cavalry finally arrived, Rodgers grabbed him and tried to use him as a body shield. He let himself go limp, trying to be deadweight—it wasn't hard, he was pretty sure he had a concussion, and everything was fading in and out—but the man was strong and Neal wasn't a huge guy.

Cowboy up, Neal.

The first gun shot was loud, and Neal blinked when he heard it. But it didn't matter, because Rodgers had let go by then and then he was falling, no strength to hold himself up anymore.

He didn't feel himself hit the ground.

He really hated guns.

* * *

Someone was calling his name. They were loud, and insistent, and commanding.

He hurt, and then someone pressed his side, right _where_ he hurt. He nearly screamed, pushing at the hand and trying to twist away, but the hand didn't budge and another hand stopped him, he couldn't move, he was trapped and he panicked-until the voice penetrated.

"Neal! Neal! It's Peter, Neal, stop it! I need you to lie still, come on, lie still. It's just me. You're bleeding too much, kid, you've got to stop moving." He knew that voice …

"Peter?" It was hard to speak.

"Yeah, Neal, it's me. Just lie quiet." His hands were caught by a large, strong one and pulled away.

Peter. Peter was here. He stilled.

"…'urts …" It did. Really badly.

"I know it does, buddy, you were shot. I want you to just stay still, focus on your breathing. Fuck, I never wanted you here in the first place. An ambulance is on its way. Just stay with me." The words were angry, distracted, upset.

Peter's words didn't make sense—was he going somewhere? Had he done something wrong? -and Neal was tired, really tired. He was trying to stay awake but his eyes were drifting closed despite himself. He was pretty sure it was over and he'd done what he was supposed to do, though, whatever Peter thought, so now by rights he got to relax. He heard Peter calling his name, and knew he should answer, but the pain that had been so bad was floating away, until he heard … "hospital!"

"No!" He shifted, trying to rise, and the pain blossomed again while Peter cursed and grabbed him, and this time Neal did scream. When he caught his breath again, when he could, Peter's hand an inexorable vice on his side, he fought back the encroaching darkness to whisper, "No hospital."

"What's that?" asked Peter. "Neal, please. Just breathe." The ground underneath him was cold, really cold, and he didn't have the energy to move away from it, or from Peter's painful grip on his side.

"Please … I did everything … please, Peter. Please." Hospitals were terrible places-Mozzie understood, but Peter didn't _know, _didn't know that Neal had promised himself that like prison, he would never go there again willingly. He needed to explain it to Peter, but he was just so tired.

"You did. You did everything you were supposed to and more; you did an excellent job, Neal. You're going to be fine now. Just lie still and breathe." Peter didn't sound sure, he sounded anxious, and Neal was too tired to tell Peter that he didn't need to worry, he was okay, he just needed to sleep for a bit.

And then the EMT's were on them, but Neal didn't see them, because he was already drifting away.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke to the sound of beeping and the smell of antiseptic. He would have panicked, but everything felt soft and far away.

Someone was holding his hand.

Peter.

Peter, his head on the blanket beside Neal's hip, just near his hand … he moved his hand, just to the left, touched the soft brown hair; but he had no strength, and his hand fell to one side.

It was enough. Peter's head lifted, and he blinked at Neal, sitting back and running a hand through his hair before becoming aware that Neal was awake. His craggy face melted into a sleepy smile. "Hey, Neal, how are you doing?"

Neal wanted to say something. He wanted to say a lot of things. Nothing was working, and his throat was too dry for intelligible words. It was frustrating.

Peter was cupping the side of his face in one large hand, and Neal leaned into it. "It's ok, kid, everything's fine. You're gonna be fine." Peter gave him some ice chips, spooning them into his mouth and pressing the call button at the same time. Neal let the ice melt in his mouth, and drip down his throat. It was bliss.

He needed more. "Water …"

"Not yet, Neal. Sorry. I know you're thirsty." Peter didn't sound all that sorry.

Neal blinked awake. He was in a hospital, or a clinic, but he was pretty sure Peter was going to help him leave. He needed to make sure. "Wanna go home. Let's go, Peter."

"Not yet, Neal. Not yet." What? That wasn't how it was supposed to go. Wasn't Peter waiting to take him home?

"Please, Peter!" Neal was suddenly close to tears, trying to force his stupid, ridiculous body to just _move_. He was pretty sure he was in a hospital, and he couldn't stay here. He couldn't.

"Shhhh, I want you to calm down right now, all right? Just calm right down." Peter was suddenly beside him, hands on his shoulders, and there was a nurse and an orderly in the room too.

"No … no … " Neal babbled, knowing the nurse was holding a hypodermic, it's what they did before, he didn't want ... He forced his body to move, ignoring the wailing alarms and the pull of the IV.

"Neal!" roared Peter, and there was fear and worry in his eyes, which brought Neal up short. "You need to listen to me, ok?"

Neal stopped struggling abruptly, which made him sag in Peter's hold. He felt Peter's arms tighten around him for a moment before Peter gently lowered him back down to the bed, because the burst of energy he'd had was gone and he realized everything hurt. A lot.

The nurse came up alongside them, but spoke to Peter as if he wasn't there. "I'm afraid that the concussion may be confusing him, but it's best not to give him too much right now even though he must be in pain. Just stay with him, try to keep him calm and quiet, that'll be the best thing for him."

Peter gave an odd chuckle. "Yeah, well …"

"No, you're doing great," smiled the nurse. "Everything looks good. I'll just change this – just saline—and check his temperature and pressure and be on my way."

The small nurse was quick and efficient, noting that Neal was running a slight fever, but assuring Peter it was nothing to get alarmed about yet. Neal wanted to scream he was still there, but all he could do was lie there gasping and watching them move around him like a beached fish.

The _yet_ was bothering Peter, Neal could tell. Didn't matter. Neal knew he was getting out of here as soon as he could, and once out, he'd bounce right back. He'd always done it before. He wanted to tell Peter everything would be fine by morning, but he was so tired.

Peter cleared his throat. "El said she'd be here soon, bring something to eat. You're not allowed anything yet, but it'll give you something to look forward to."

Neal just blinked at him. He desperately wanted to say something, to thank him, beg him to stay, make a flippant remark, discuss how maybe he could have a couple of days before he went back to work, anything, but he fell asleep before he could even think anything more.

* * *

He woke again to beeping, antiseptic, an itchy-pinching in his arm, hushed voices and pain.

"He's sort of woken a couple of times, but he doesn't manage it for long, and I'm not sure how aware he is. They're still monitoring him for the concussion." Peter, his muzzy brain identified. Safety. Honesty. Trust. Danger.

"But he'll be ok?" Elizabeth, he was pretty sure. Sweet and fun and didn't trust him, but liked him. She shouldn't be here. Here was not safe. Why would Peter let her be somewhere unsafe? He didn't understand.

"Yeah, he's tough, but he's never pulling anything like this again. If I have to personally cuff him to a chair, he's not. This has taken ten years off my life." Peter sounded tired, but not worried. He should be worried. Elizabeth shouldn't be …

"You ok with bringing him home?" Elizabeth's voice was matter of fact, but the words didn't make any sense at all.

"Thanks, El. I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it." Peter sounded relieved, and grateful, and loving.

"Peter, it's _Neal_. As long as he's ok with it—and I don't really think he has much of a choice, he's going to need a lot of help-of course he's coming home with us." She paused. "How soon, do you think?"

"They think he'll be here at least a week, and then they'll … Neal?" Strong fingers pulled his hand away from where they were inching towards the irritation in his arm. Neal tugged, with what strength he had, until Peter wrenched his hand to the bed, pinning it there and snapping, "Leave it." He said it like he'd say it to Satchmo.

Neal well knew that tone, and he well knew his place in the Burke hierarchy-but still, he couldn't help himself. Moz always accused him of-"Peter?" he tried, forcing his voice to work. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils, bringing memories he didn't want.

He couldn't stay here a week. He _couldn't._ And Elizabeth shouldn't be here at all.

"How are you feeling? A little better, I hope. They've increased the pain meds a bit." Peter sounded like he was deeply annoyed and trying not to show it.

Neal didn't know why Peter was upset, but he tried desperately to focus. First things first. "Peter … take Elizabeth home. It's not safe here. Please." As much as Neal wanted to leave, he hated the thought of Elizabeth being here more. Right now, Elizabeth's safety was most important.

"Neal, this is a hospital. Short of prison, it's one of the most secure places there is. It's totally safe. Your tracking anklet's even gone, see?" Peter didn't understand, and Neal didn't know how to explain it to him, didn't know how to make Peter believe him. Peter's world was sometimes so different than Neal's that it was difficult to even find a reference point. Worse, Peter sounded totally exasperated with Neal, and an exasperated Peter was not, as Neal well knew, a Peter that was open to explanations of foreign concepts from his erstwhile C.I. Neal tried frantically to remember what he'd done to irritate Peter, because whatever it was, he could fix it, he _had_ to, he had to at least try, but he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember, and it was so difficult to concentrate on anything, his head was pounding and he was struggling to hold a thought for longer than a few seconds. But Peter had to know that-

"No … you … Peter, please. I did what I was supposed to, I tried, I-" He was guessing now, because he didn't remember much-but he remembered trying to do what they wanted, he knew he would have at least tried. He needed to convince Peter that-

"I _know_, Neal," said Peter, interrupting Neal's whirling thoughts, "you did great. I already told you. Except for the part where you-"

"I'm sorry," said Neal, not bothering to hear what Peter believed he'd messed up. "I'm so sorry, but please, Peter, I promise I'll-" Neal tried not to sound like he was begging. A good con artist never begged, and in a few weeks, that's all he'd be again-only this time, he'd be one without Kate.

"Sweetie," Elizabeth cut in, "you haven't done anything wrong. Peter," she said, her tone becoming more commanding, "tell him."

"Aside from giving me a few more grey hairs, no, Neal, you've done great," repeated Peter obediently. "It's Kaito whose head I want to see roll. He had no business-"

"Peter," said Elizabeth warningly, "Neal has been through a lot, and he needs to stay calm."

"Right. Well, Caffrey, you've managed to do such a good job, even Hughes is singing your praises right now. And he's told me specifically that I can have some time off while you stay here-"

Bingo. Neal felt a rush of relief. He still couldn't remember much, but Peter didn't know that, and wasn't that what a good con was all about? Peter had just given him the leverage he needed. "So the FBI owes me one?"

Peter snorted. "I wouldn't exactly say _that_, Caffrey, but yeah, you did good. Now, all you have to do is-"

"Then, Peter," Neal interrupted, because that was typical Peter. He always wanted one more thing from him. "Then I think they owe me at least a cab ride home." Neal didn't think he could face the subway, not right now. He felt like he could barely stay awake.

"You can't go home alone right now, Neal," Elizabeth cut in again. "Peter and I are hoping you'll come to our place when they release you."

Oh. Well, maybe that would be all right, but-"Will it take long? I would hate to hold you guys up when -"

"It won't be today, Neal," said Peter gently. "But probably no more than a few more days, no more than a week, don`t—"

_No, no nonono_ … There was a roaring in his ears and he couldn't form the words he needed to-

"Neal, calm down!" Peter sounded alarmed.

Neal didn't care anymore. "I … I can't stay. I … please, please get me out of here. You don't need to take me to your place, just take me to June's, or—let me go there myself, please, I`ll take a cab, I was just kidding about Hughes. Please. Just not here." His voice was a whisper; he couldn't make it louder.

"Neal, be reasonable. You are in really bad shape right now." Elizabeth's voice was gentle.

"Neal, don't be stupid." Peter's voice was not.

Neal thought desperately. He needed to convince Peter, he needed to, but it was so difficult to think, and to make everything worse, despite the frequent blinking, he was fading. This was the longest he'd stayed awake since he'd been brought in. "Peter … you told me you had a rule. Remember?"

"I've got a lot of rules, Neal. Including one that says you should stop talking and sleep right now." Peter's voice had taken on that stern edge.

"Peter … Peter, listen." It was getting progressively harder to stay awake.

"Yeah, Neal. I'm right here." And Peter was, so close Neal could feel him, could smell him, could feel his breath fanning his cheek. Peter kept repeating the words, and his voice sounded monotonous, as if he'd been repeating the same thing over and over-but the important thing was that Peter stayed close. Which was good. Even whispering, it was hard to get the words out.

"You said … if I could stand and walk … then I didn't … need a hospital. Remember?" It had been over two years ago, and Neal had fallen off something, he couldn't remember—he'd had bruises, he was sore, but he had been more or less fine. But Neal had demanded medical attention as a stalling point; Peter had refused to fall for it.

"That wasn't a rule, Neal! I was making a point!" Peter exploded. That situation was nothing like this one, Neal knew. And their relationship was nothing like it was now. Still.

"You said so. You promised." Neal's voice was thin and panicked.

Peter wouldn't put it past Neal to con him, and Neal knew it, but this was a flimsy argument at best; then again, Neal was in a hospital, in pain and on drugs, and he simply couldn't _think_ to come up with something better. Couldn't smile and wink and tease. And to make it worse, the damned heart monitor had sped up again, betraying his anxiety despite anything he could have thought of to say.

Peter was talking to him, and Neal tried to focus on his voice, tried to make himself pay attention to the words. "Neal, listen to me. We'll figure it out tomorrow. And –" Elizabeth whispered something in Peter's ear, and Peter paused. "Yeah, ok, you're right, it'd be just like him," and then Peter's voice went back to that commanding tone. "And Neal, no getting up to prove anything, you got it? I don't want you to get out of this bed. I don't even want you to try. If you try, I'll be really angry, and I won't help you. Do you understand?" Peter kept his voice soft and slow but serious, and Neal sighed. How could he prove it if Peter wouldn't even let him try?

A thought occurred: if he just walked out of here, without the tracking anklet, how would Peter even know?

He must have said it aloud, because Peter leaned down at that, and said, "I'll know, idiot, because I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere tonight, Caffrey."

And with that, Neal relaxed, even if he knew, rationally, that he should argue. Convince Peter to go home: promise Peter he wouldn't run, he could trust him, hadn't he proven that? Tell Peter what he already knew: he didn't have to worry, not any more. Where would he even go now? But he was so tired, and as long as Peter was here, he knew he was safe; he could rest. Even here.

His eyes kept slipping shut despite his volition; he simply no longer had the strength to keep them open. But his grip on Peter's hand didn't let up, as he held on to the thought like a lifeline. Tomorrow. He could bide his time, just until tomorrow, if Peter stayed.

"Ok, buddy," said Peter quietly, soothingly, "I want you to sleep for a bit. Just rest. I'm right here." Peter brushed his thumb over the knuckles of Neal's hand before trying to tuck it back in under the covers, but Neal wouldn't let go.

"You're going to stay?" Before he could let go, he needed to make sure, he had to make sure ...

"I've got nowhere else I want to be." And even as the heart monitor showed his heart rate slowing as Neal succumbed to sleep, his right hand still clung to Peter's.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal wasn't released the next day. They'd upped his meds, after the first 24 hours of monitoring, and he struggled to stay awake longer than a few minutes. True to his word, Peter had stayed with him—but by the next morning, he'd had to go back to work, and so he brushed the hair off Neal's forehead, squeezed his hand, and left Neal in the competent care of the medical staff.

Elizabeth checked in on him in the afternoon, and Peter dropped by in the evening. Neal spent every minute awake negotiating with them to take him home. He made promises, and he tried not to beg—begging was always a bad idea, showing weakness, and usually unsuccessful—but he came perilously close at one point without even meaning to, making Elizabeth cry. It didn't matter, though. Peter had the final say, and it didn't work.

"You're not in prison, Neal," said Moz, when he'd brought himself to drop by, and when Neal had tried to explain (without providing details, because Mozzie didn't need details, no one needed details). "This is just a regular hospital. You're fine here."

And if not even Mozzie, who hated hospitals and administration and believed in conspiracies understood, Neal knew he was truly fucked. To make everything worse, the medical staff were frustrated with him, describing him as difficult, even the ones who had tried to be nice at first. He'd started dreaming that Peter came to pick him up, and drove him to his house, but when they arrived, Dr. Crawley came out instead of Elizabeth; Peter turned into Powell and they dragged him inside the house, where the inside looked just like the Gateway.

Neal had considered just walking out, was strongly tempted to just sign himself out against medical advice and Peter's wishes (because he could forge Peter's signature in his sleep if he'd wanted)-but he was so close to the end, he couldn't, wouldn't risk messing it up now if he hadn't already. He could handle this, he told himself. He could.

He had to.

So Neal tried, he really tried to stay awake, but he fell asleep despite himself. He usually managed to wake up—hospitals were not quiet-but it wasn`t enough. The drugs kept pulling him under, and he`d forgotten how many times he`d woken himself and the other patients up with his screaming.

The drugs he was on had been altered, he thought, and these new ones did nothing to control the nightmares. Or something. He didn't know, he couldn't keep it straight, and everyone was frustrated with him. Including himself. Something terrible was going to happen if he didn't fix it, start behaving like everyone wanted—Neal knew it, and he knew, just like he had when he was a kid waiting for the inevitable beating, that he didn't know how to stop it.

By the time Peter actually stopped by, Neal was exhausted, half-convinced he was going to be sent back to prison, and half-hoping that he was dead wrong and Peter would let him go home. He could see Peter talking to the doctors just outside his door before he stepped into the room. Peter didn't look happy.

"Hey, Neal."

"Hi, Peter," he responded, wary. Whatever happened, he was not going to do anything unmanly.

"The doctors say you're not sleeping, and you're refusing a sedative. Ya gotta rest, buddy, if you want to get out of here." Peter's voice was careful, neutral.

"I know. I will." Neal's voice was listless and his gaze flat. Disappointment was rushing through him, and he tried not to let anything show. Despite himself, unreasonably, he'd been hoping maybe Peter would have agreed he could leave, had come to spring him. Neal was out of tricks. He'd tried apologizing, tried offering any reparation, any confession he could—but nothing worked. Peter wouldn't sign Neal's release papers, not until Crawley said he could go.

Because despite the fog and the confusion, Neal knew that Crawley had to be behind this. He hadn't seen Crawley yet, didn't know what he wanted this time, but he knew it was just a matter of time. Every time someone came by, every time he heard a noise close by, he jolted awake, but it had been to no avail.

"What's wrong, Neal?" Peter looked concerned, as if he cared. As if ..

Suddenly angry, Neal snapped. "Nothing, everything's fine. We done?"

"Not by a long shot. I'm staying until you sleep for a while. You're exhausted, Neal." Peter didn't mention the nightmares. Maybe, Neal thought hopefully, he didn't know.

"Look, Peter, just let me get out of here, go to June's. I won't be a bother, I won't do anything you wouldn't approve of, and I'll be back at work next week. I promise. Please, Peter." He knew he was pleading, and he wasn't even doing it right. He didn't care.

Peter's response was categorical. "No. Don't even think about it. You still have two weeks left on your contract, and until then, you're still mine. And you won't be back at work for at least another month-don't worry, it'll give us time to re-negotiate your contract." Peter's voice gentled. "You've got a long road ahead of you, Neal, but you'll get there—provided you behave."

"Re-negotiate?" whispered Neal. What was Peter talking about? He had a thousand questions, but it was so hard to get the words out. He hated that just talking—the thing he was good at, the thing that he did so effortlessly—took up all his energy. And it was so difficult to focus.

"Yeah. I was supposed to talk to you about that, if you want, we can … doesn't matter. It's not important right now. We can talk about it later."

"What do you mean it's not important? It's …" Were they extending his sentence? Why would they do that? Neal couldn't remember what he'd done to …

"Neal. It's not important—we'll work something out. But you have to get out of this hospital first. Come on, work with me here. Why can't you sleep? What's going on?" Peter cajoled.

"I don't like hospitals. I told you." Neal's voice was sullen and distracted as he struggled to think. What had they just been talking about? It had been important ...

"No one does, kiddo. You just gotta cowboy up." Peter was trying to sound encouraging. For Peter, anyway.

"I know. But I really hate them." He didn't know how to make Peter understand, and if he told him about … well, he wasn't inclined to launch into a detailed explanation, and definitely not here in an open ward, where anyone or everyone could hear. He wasn't sure Peter would believe him anyway. He trusted Peter, absolutely and implicitly (for the most part), but he didn't know, still, how far Peter would trust him.

Hell, Neal wasn't sure even he would have believed it, if someone had told him the story, four years ago. It was-if he hadn't lived it, he'd never have understood. Besides, it wasn't the kind of thing he was comfortable having Peter know. It wasn't the kind of thing he was comfortable having anyone know.

"Look, Caffrey, I can't help you if you're not straight with me. Tell me why. What makes you special?" Peter had clearly given up the cajoling route. He'd never had much patience.

Then again, neither did Neal. "Nothing. Never mind. I'm not special. You've told me. I get it."

"Neal … fine. Get some rest." Peter sounded almost as exhausted as Neal felt.

But Neal couldn't. He was beyond tired: his body was pulling at him, but his fear was something else and the conversation had stirred up old memories. Peter refused to talk with him anymore, and lying there, staring at the ceiling, shifting to try to find some way to lay that didn't hurt … Neal's mind churned.

Despite all that, somewhere in the middle, he fell asleep.

Unbeknownst to him, watching him sleep, Peter settled into a chair and smiled.

* * *

It took about 45 minutes for Neal to wake screaming. Peter was at his side in seconds, gathering him into his arms carefully, frantically pressing the call button. "Neal! Neal, I got you. I got you. Nurse!"

"Mr. Caffrey again?" The nurse sighed, unsympathetic and exasperated. "Settle down, Mr. Caffrey. You're disturbing the others."

Neal was disoriented and gasping, apologizing without a shadow of his usual charm. "I'm sorry, I know, I'm sorry …"

"Shhh, Neal. Quiet. It's all right. You haven't done anything wrong." Peter glared at the nurse, who remained unfazed, checking the monitors before drawing the curtain closed again and leaving.

"I woke … " Neal's voice was high and panicky.

"Shhhh. It's ok. It's not your fault. Shhh." Neal was blinking, his hair rumpled, his face pale. He looked weak and vulnerable and impossibly young. But he quieted as Peter stroked his hair, settled him down.

"Peter?" The voice was thready and whisper-soft.

"Yeah Neal."

"You stayed." Neal sighed and his eyes drew closed, as if against his will.

"I said I would, didn't I?" Neal's hand flopped pathetically on the bed, grasping at air, and Peter caught it firmly it in his own.

"I'm tired, Peter. I'm so tired."

"It's ok, Neal. I'm here. You're safe. I won't leave you, I promise. Go to sleep."

"You promise?" Neal's hand tightened on his. He squeezed back, almost imperceptibly.

"Yeah, Neal, you have my word. Sleep."

And this time, Neal did.

Neal slept for hours. The nurses dropped by and smiled their approval, glad someone had finally made their recalcitrant patient behave, and having the grace to look regretful when they woke Neal to check his vitals as they made their rounds, although Neal always dropped right back to sleep fairly quickly after. Peter's arm cramped, and his neck and shoulder went stiff, but he didn't care. He tried to read a little, but it was difficult in that position, and he tried to sleep a little, which was equally difficult.

Peter called in sick the next morning, still holding Neal's hand while he slept on. He needed the sleep. El dropped by to relieve him the next morning-literally, because every time he tried to let go of Neal's hand, Neal stirred and began to look distressed, and Peter had to go to the bathroom quite desperately. Peter had no idea what was going on—but he knew something was, and he would find out. Now was not the time, not with Neal so weak, but soon—the timing had to be right. Once Neal had his defences back up, Peter wasn't sure he'd be able to discover anything at all.

Neal woke in the late morning, blinking against the light. "Peter?" he asked, hoarsely. He seemed confused and still tired.

"Well, Princess Aurora awakes! And just in time for lunch. You missed breakfast, Your Highness." Peter beamed at him, as if nothing had happened in the night. As if Peter hadn't watched Neal waking half the ward up with his pathetic screaming.

"You're here." Neal's tone was bemused. Maybe … maybe he'd imagined it? Maybe …

"Where else would I be?" Peter plastered a reassuring smile on his face.

"But …" Neal seemed dazed and barely coherent.

Peter's brows drew together. He squeezed Neal's hand in his own. "Stop worrying. Everything's fine."

"I can leave?" His voice was joking, but Neal's eyes betrayed his hope.

"Sorry, Dino, no. You'll have to enjoy the fabulous green robe wardrobe for a bit longer. But either I or El are going to stay with you as much as possible while you're here, until you _can_ leave. All right?"

"You can't do that. You've got to work … the case … " Neal sounded tired and defeated. Peter had said he'd stay before-but that was before he'd known about the nightmares.

"Don't worry about that. You did a great job, all that's left is the paperwork. You know how I feel about paperwork." Peter grinned, still trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah." Neal shifted slightly, and pain flashed across his features.

"Hey, Caffrey," Peter asked, "how're you feeling? You hurting?"

Neal shook his head, stiffly. He was lying.

"Come on Neal. Tell me the truth."

"It's not bad. 'Sides, I have to cowboy up, remember?" Neal's eyes closed, seemingly involuntarily.

"Not this time, Neal. You rest easy. I'll wake you up for lunch, all right?" Peter tried to make his voice soothing.

"Not hungry," Neal muttered.

"You feel nauseous?" Peter laid a hand on Neal's forehead. Neal leaned, just slightly, into the touch and his lips twitched up in a smile, but Peter didn't smile. Neal was warm. Too warm.

"Just a little. 'S probably the drugs. It'll pass." Neal's voice sounded dopey, his words slurring.

"Neal, you're running a fever. I'm going to call the nurse." Peter tried to keep calm.

"Don't. You worry too much. Elizabeth told me. Worry all the time … " Neal shifted slightly, sighing, his voice fading. Peter ignored him.

Peter tried to keep calm, he did. But then the nurse bustled in, and bustled around, and called for a doctor, and then there was a flurry of activity and orders and Neal protesting weakly while medical terms flew around until an orderly began dragging Peter out.

Half an hour later, sitting on a hard chair in the waiting room, he was told that Caffrey had been transferred to ICU and was being stabilized. They were still cleaning him up, and it would be a while. "You should go home," the young resident said, gently but firmly. Even though the guy looked about twelve, Peter recognized it for the order it was.

"Here's my number," he said. "I'm listed as his next of kin. Please, please call me if there's any change." He tried not to sound like he was begging.

"Sure, Mr. Burke. Get some rest. We'll call you." The resident's eyes were kind. Peter didn't want to guess what that meant.

Defeated, Peter went home.

* * *

"Honey-honey, is that you?" Elizabeth's voice called to him from the living room, sweet and clear and tired. She loved Neal as much as he did—she'd been run ragged as well, managing everything and checking on them both.

"Yeah, El." Peter blinked against the bright light of the room before crossing to sit beside her on the sofa, slumping into its cushiony softness. He was so tired. He felt like he hadn't slept in days.

"How's Neal?" Elizabeth shifted over, letting him stretch out a bit on the couch.

"He's in ICU. They wouldn't let me see him." Peter said the words flatly, trying not to think about them. Trying not to think about what they meant.

"Oh." Elizabeth said the word softly. She wasn't sure she understood what that meant. Wasn't sure she could wrap her mind around it.

"Yeah. He spiked a fever … I'm not sure. They're not saying. They said they'd call."

After a minute, she asked, "Do you want something to eat?"

"Not really."

"I made enchiladas. Have a bit. The game's on—you can watch as we eat." El's voice held a note of forced cheer—she was trying, and he loved her for it. Peter loved enchiladas.

"All right," he conceded. He'd never been able to say no to El.

Elizabeth made him up a plate, and Peter picked at his food for the next half hour, eventually putting it on the floor. Elizabeth began to protest—any food on the floor was fair game as far as Satchmo was concerned, and Peter had barely touched the food. But before she could say anything, Peter spoke, and his voice was as defeated as she'd ever heard him.

"He's at the end of his contract, El. He's at the end, and … he didn't have to go on this mission. He could have refused. What is it with that boy and the end of his sentence? It's like he's purposely messing it up." Peter was working himself up towards anger.

Elizabeth moved closer, put her arm around Peter, stroked his back.

"I don't know, sweetheart. I don't. He'll be okay, Peter." Empty promises, and they both knew it, but it didn't matter. She kept stroking, and she felt Peter calming, felt a little of that terrible tension slowly leaving his body.

"He better be." Peter choked back something that sounded suspiciously like a sob he was trying to make into a laugh, and then … and then something broke. Something broke, and he started weeping, deep, heart-wrenching sobs. "I think they're losing him, El. I think we're losing him."

"No, Peter. No. He's strong, you said it yourself. He's strong. He'll be fine. Come here." She shifted on the couch, pulled Peter up and against her so his head was against her breast. She held him there, kissed his forehead, his hair. "Come here, baby. It's going to be fine. I promise. It'll be fine. You haven't been sleeping, have you? You've been so worried you can't see straight, but you'll see."

"I've gotta go back." Peter said the words desperately, but he was at the end of his rope. So Elizabeth did what she had to do, what she'd always done. She picked up the pieces.

In the end, she'd always been the stronger one.

"No. They haven't called yet, and when they do, I'll take a day, and I'll go. You can go in the morning, after you get some rest. He'll need you then." She stroked Peter's hair, tightened her arms around him.

"He hates it there, El. He won't tell me why, but he keeps asking …" Peter's voice was fading.

"I know. I know he does. But he has to stay. You know that. He just hates doing anything he's supposed to do." Elizabeth grinned slightly, and Peter's lips twitched just a little at that. She waited a moment, thinking that maybe Peter had gone to sleep—better if he went upstairs, but-Peter shifted restlessly, and so she started speaking again. "He's going to be fine, and we're going to bring him home. We'll keep him here until he's back on his feet and driving you mad." Elizabeth kept her voice low, and soothing. Peter was exhausted.

Peter chuckled, the sound broken and strangled. "That he does! He's so … " Peter's voice trailed off, and then he said, "He's the best partner I've ever had, El. I thought I was going to lose him when his contract was up, put off thinking about it, but now … now I'm going to lose him anyway. And I don't want to. Not like …"

"Shhh. Shhh." Elizabeth didn't know what to say. If they lost Neal … would Peter survive it? Probably, she thought, she hoped, but would he be the same?

"I know … I know you think he's tough, El, and he is. He's a survivor but … he's—there's something wrong. There's something there, El. I just don't know what it is yet." Because Neal wasn't actually as tough as he appeared, as tough as Peter'd once expected him to be. No, Neal was as fragile and brittle as they got, and that's what Peter couldn't resist. That's what drew him in.

But instead she said, "And you never could resist a mystery, now could you?" Elizabeth smiled, and shook her head, rubbed her cheek against her husband's soft brown hair.

"You know me too well," and El could hear the smile in Peter's voice. "Neal's the best cipher there is. Always has been. He needs us, El. If—" i If he makes it through the night /i, Peter didn't say, but they both heard it.

Elizabeth sighed, trying to contain her own worry for Peter's sake. But she couldn't imagine life without Neal, anymore. Couldn't imagine him not a part of their lives. "He's going to be okay, Peter. You need to believe it."

"They still haven't called."

"They will. Go to sleep, Peter. I'm here. I promise." _I'm here,_ thought El at him fiercely. _If the worst happens … if the worst happens, I'm here. I'll always be here._

* * *

They called at just shy of four in the morning. Apparently, they'd had to rush Neal into emergency surgery once the X-rays came back and confirmed what they'd thought—essentially, they'd missed a piece of shrapnel, which had lodged in Neal's spleen, causing the severe pain and the fever from the resultant infection. They thought they had it under control now, they reassured, and Mr. Caffrey had been heavily sedated, but everything was under control. There was no need for worry.

Elizabeth took the call, and despite the reassurances, couldn't sleep afterwards. Peter was still sleeping, and she didn't want to disturb him, so she got up and began going over fabric samples for an upcoming next event. She was angry at the hospital—how could they miss something like that that?—she was upset for Neal—how was emergency surgery and a raging infection not worrisome—and she was worried about her husband, who cared so much for Neal and who had invested so much into his rehabilitation. Peter, who had been so anxious that he was going to lose Neal to the end of the contract that he hadn't ever even contemplated losing him in other ways.

By seven, she was on her way to the hospital, having left a short note for Peter to let him know that she'd called him in sick again and where she was going.

Neal looked terrible. He had been hooked up to a respirator and about a dozen other monitors, and his closed eyes were swollen and bruised, while catheter needles had been inserted into the veins along his neck. He was still—she didn't think she'd ever seen Neal so absolutely still before.

But he was still alive. She ran a hand through his hair; kissed his cheek. His skin was warm, and his hair under her hand was soft. But he smelled like hospital, and not like the Neal Caffrey she knew, who always smelled like sandalwood and citrus—he liked Tom Ford, Elizabeth knew (Peter was a font of such information, making gift giving so much easier), and so she'd given him a bottle of the pricey stuff last Christmas.

She sat by his bed for an hour, until she had to leave for work.

She squeezed Neal's hand before she left. He looked so small in the bed—thin, pale, and vulnerable. She hated to leave him here. It wasn't right, in so many ways, that he was here at all.

Two weeks to the end of his contract. Two weeks. It would be so ironic—and so Caffrey—if he died before he saw his freedom. For all he usually appeared blessed by the gods-charming and handsome and careless, smart and witty and well-dressed, living the high life at June's place-Elizabeth knew that like everything else in the young con man's life, that appearance was little better than illusion and gloss.

"Get better, Neal," she whispered in his ear. "You'll kill my husband if you don't. And with him … you'll kill me too."


	4. Chapter 4

They kept Neal sedated for three days.

It wasn't fair, Peter thought. It just wasn't bloody fair. Neal had served his time. More than served. He was almost done. He shouldn't have had to do this. He shouldn't have thought he had to. Almost as much as Neal, Peter was glad that the sentence was almost over. Despite anything he might have said, Peter had never liked sending Neal into danger-particularly given Neal's precarious position and limited choices, exacerbated by Neal's love of risk and recklessness with his own safety—and he'd liked it even less as time wore on. The young thief had wormed and insinuated his way into Peter's life—and Peter was a guy of his creature comforts, who hated change. Once in, Peter didn't like doing anything that would allow anything-or anyone-in his world to leave so easily.

Still, Neal didn't have nightmares under sedation—at least not as far as Peter could tell- and the doctors said he was progressing. Still, Peter worried. He couldn't take much time off work—what, because his C.I. was in the hospital?—but he hated leaving Neal alone, even though Neal did have a steady stream of visitors. He and El dropped by when they could, as did Mozzie and even Alex, once. Jones and Diana kept tabs through Peter, and on the fourth day, the hospital let Peter know that they'd cut the sedation and moved Neal out of ICU and into medical.

Peter dropped by the hospital around noon. When he finally found the medical ward and Neal's new room, Haversham was already there, speaking to a Neal that was awake but seemed unaware, blinking dazedly while Haversham ranted at him in soothing, low tones, abut how crazy he was being and all he had to do if he needed to get out was let him know and …

Neal saw Peter before Haversham did, and then Haversham tracked Neal's gaze. "Suit! I mean, Agent Burke. How … considerate … of you to drop by." Haversham did not recover well.

"Haversham. I thought I'd told you to call me Peter. Hello, Neal. How are you doing?"

Neal's head shifted slightly. He blinked slowly at Peter, his blue eyes unfocussed and glazed, not saying anything. His hand, when Peter found it tucked under the blanket, was cold, limp and unresponsive. After a few minutes, Neal's eyes slid closed and didn't open again.

There was silence for a few minutes, but Neal remained still. Peter wasn`t even sure if he was sleeping. Trying to distract himself, he turned to Haversham, asking, "Have you been here long?"

Haversham seemed, if possible, more nervous than usual. "What's it to you?" he snapped. Then Haverhsam sighed. "Do you really think I'm going to give you that kind of information, Suit?" Haversham sounded tired, now, more than nervous.

Peter sighed as well. As long as he'd known the little man, Haversham never changed, and neither did this dance. There were times that Peter almost enjoyed Haversham's irritating company, but now was not that time. "How long had he been awake?"

Haversham considered Peter a moment, before coming to some kind of internal decision. To Peter's surprise, when Mozzie spoke again, he actually answered the question. "Off and on, he's awake only maybe five or ten, and then he's out again. I'm not sure if he recognizes me—he's pretty out of it."

Peter didn't say anything, and after a minute, Haversham turned back to look at Neal. His voice when he spoke again was both fond and concerned. "He's only had access to drugs this good on a couple of occasions, so his tolerance is low."

"Really?" Peter hadn't really meant to ask, wasn't necessarily invested in the answer, although he never passed up an opportunity to learn about Neal's past.

"Yeah, once he was …." Seeing Peter's raised eyebrow, Haversham cut himself off and hurried on. "And another time in that clinic. Possibly once or twice in prison, though. He doesn't talk about it much. Neal generally hates being drugged."

"Right." Peter filed the information away, making a mental note to take a look at Neal's prison file again. He hadn't ever really bothered to take a look at it in detail, he realized with some surprise, past the parole reports. "What's that you were telling him about getting out?"

The little man shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm just trying to be encouraging."

"You do know that with his anklet off, I have to countersign if he wants to leave this place?" Peter tried to keep his voice stern, but from the look on the other man's face, Haversham wasn't buying it, and Peter's heart wasn't really in it anyway.

"Sure, Suit," was all Haversham said though, allowing it, generously playing along. Because they both knew that by the time Neal was ready to walk anywhere—the anklet would no longer be an issue.

* * *

Peter had to leave by early evening. By then Neal was drifting in and out, although he had periods of lucidity. Over Neal's protests that he scarcely needed to be babysat, Peter called Haversham before he left, and made sure to let Haversham know that Neal was not to be left alone. Both of them ignored Neal, because both of them could see how Neal tracked their progress across the room; both of them could see the fear in Neal's eyes that under the influence of drugs he couldn't hide as easily as he normally did. Haversham agreed to organized shifts, and to call if he needed to leave.

By next morning, Neal was mostly awake and coherent, could be coaxed into lowering himself to eat a little of the hospital food (no one pointed out that the bland hospital food was likely all he could manage) and the doctors were pleased with his progress. In Neal's mind, somehow, this translated to him renewing his campaign to leave the hospital. He was still at it when Peter dropped by at lunch, hanging back in the doorway to shamelessly eavesdrop on Neal.

"Moz, I think I should go to June's." Neal's voice was studiously casual. Even with his friends, Peter noted for the millionth time, Neal did not easily let his masks slip.

"The Suit is planning to take you to his place, let his wife feed you. Didn't he tell you?" Haversham was no idiot, but Neal's back was to the door and the hospital was noisy; in his loopy state Neal could not be faulted for not being as hyper-aware as he normally would be.

"Nah, they're busy. I'll be fine at home. June's staff are pretty good to me, you know." Neal was still trying.

"They are that. It'll put a strain on them, though. June'll likely have to pay them extra. Maybe you'd just better go with the Suit." Haversham waved at Peter, and Peter grinned. Busted.

"Nah. June's generous, and I won't need much. You know me—I sleep when I'm recovering, and in a couple days, I'll be back in the game." Neal was starting to sound a little desperate.

"Sorry, Neal, I think I agree with the Suit on this one." Haversham's voice was gentle, soothing, caring. Peter blinked—he'd rarely heard the little man sound like that.

"You say that a lot. I'm not sure I like it—makes me feel like I've woken up in bizzaro-world." Neal was trying to keep his voice light, but Peter could hear the resentment underneath. He hated it when Haversham ganged up with Peter.

"Or maybe I've been affected by red kryptonite." Haversham said brightly, playing the game.

"Yeah. Come on, Moz. All you have to do is get me some clothes and a car." Neal's voice was cajoling, now. Unbelievable, thought Peter. Neal was actually trying to charm his friend from flat on his back on a hospital bed.

Haversham's tone was hasty, as if he didn't want Neal to say anything incriminating. He probably didn't. "Neal, don't you think that if you can't manage to get your own clothes you might want to rethink your Houdini-act?"

"Moz, you know how much I hate hospitals. I can't even think here." And Neal's voice in that moment was without artifice, and Peter ached to hear it.

Peter edged into the room, but Haversham shook his head, slightly, shooting Peter a warning look, before saying to Neal, "And I'm shaking. I hate these places too, I get it. But I still agree with the Suit."

"That I should go stay at his place? They're never even home. I'd be much better off at June's. I'll go to the Burkes' when I'm feeling a little better." Peter frowned, opening his mouth. That was scarcely fair. He'd …

Haversham outright glared at Peter this time, because Neal's eyes had drifted shut. "That you shouldn't leave here at all yet, Neal." Haversham's voice was still gentle, betraying none of his annoyance at the FBI agent standing like the proverbial elephant in the room. Neal's lips twitched. His temper was starting to fray—he hated being gentled.

"I thought you were always there if I wanted to get out." In pain and frustration, Neal let some of his anger slip, although his voice was pretty weak and his eyes stayed closed. It clearly frustrated him even more when Haversham didn't react to the tone. Peter, for his part, raised an eyebrow, but it was nothing new, nothing he didn't already know. He was scarcely going to hold it against Neal or Haversham now.

"That's _prison_, Neal. That's different." Haversham's voice was still gentle. Indulgent. Neal was the con-artist; and Peter could see by the look on Neal's face how he hated being so out of control that others felt they could manipulate him. Hated it.

"I don't see much of a difference." This time, Neal didn't even seem to care how bitter he clearly sounded.

"Get some rest, Neal," was all Haversham said, his tone still mild, settling in to wait for Neal to do exactly that.

Seeing Neal in good hands, Peter nodded at Haversham and left.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been so patient with this story. I've had to revise earlier parts to get where I'm going, but I'm almost done!_

* * *

Early morning brought Peter, sipping at coffee Neal wasn't yet allowed to drink. Neal was just lying in his room, alone. He turned his head when Peter entered.

"Where's Haversham?" demanded Peter, tired after having spent the night in the van, and upset that no one was around. Work had been busy, for both he and El—but he had expected that …

"He had to go, and no one else was around. I told you I don't need to be babysat, Peter," Neal snapped. "That's not helpful."

Peter didn't respond, just looked Neal over critically. He looked better, to some extent.

Then Peter noticed the restraints, binding Neal's hands and feet to the bed.

"I suppose you're here to tell me to be good and do as I'm told. I'm working on it," said Neal, before Peter could comment on them, and his voice this time was even and neutral. Peter looked up. Neal might have had his voice back in control, but his eyes were still honest, and his eyes were filled with hurt and anger. But Peter could see how hard Neal was trying, and swallowed. Neal shouldn't have had to try-not like this.

"I'm sorry, Neal. I'm just sorry this happened. Along with everything else, I'm also supposed to keep you safe, Neal. That's my responsibility. I know I've done a lousy job of it, but trust me when I say I'm trying. I just don't know what to do."

"This wasn't your fault, Peter. It wasn't," said Neal, sincerely. He looked-and sounded-completely drained. _Poor Neal_, Peter thought. Between the drugs and the pain, he was not the suave swindler he usually managed to be.

"What's with the restraints, Neal? What did you-"

"Nothing. I'm a con, remember? No one was here, I'm awake, and I have no anklet. It's protocol, Peter. You should know. The resident's upset that I'd been free this long." Neal's voice was resigned.

"I'll talk to them," promised Peter.

"You do that," said Neal, but he sounded weary and hopeless.

"You need anything, then?" Peter asked quietly, not wanting to stress Neal any further.

"No, I'm good." Neal smiled, but it was his con smile-the one that never quite reached his eyes.

Neal made a show of settling himself in the bed, closing his eyes. "Why don't you go home-I'm tired, Peter. I think I'll take a nap." It wasn't even time for breakfast yet, and they'd be waking him up for rounds in minutes.

"I'll call June," said Peter. "She can-"

"No," said Neal. "I want to be alone." He laughed then, short and bitter. "Well, as alone as I can get here, anyway."

"Neal-" Peter had opened his mouth to protest, to say something, but then … then he stopped. "Okay," he said instead. He needed to stop fighting Neal. Let him behave as he liked, give in. _He's ill_, Peter reminded himself. He can't take any additional stress.

"I'm tired, Peter. Please," said Neal, and Peter let it go, allowing the retreat. He didn't want to fight with Neal, even if he hated leaving him here. He'd promised he wouldn't, but it would be only for a few hours and maybe-maybe Neal needed this. He had to trust Neal to tell him what he needed.

So instead, he said, "Go right ahead, Neal. I've got to head back to the office-to interview a new C.I. of all things, if you can believe it" and here Peter barked a short laugh, "but I'll be back as soon as I can. I brought your cell charger, and it's plugged in; call me if you need anything."

Neal didn't answer. His breathing had evened out. It looked like he had, despite everything, actually fallen asleep.

Peter quietly slipped out of the room.

* * *

Failing to find any medical personnel handy and already running late, Peter was halfway to the office when he realized he'd somehow forgotten his cell phone in Neal's room. He turned around, cursing, heading back to the hospital.

Walking down the corridor to Neal's room, he heard Neal calling before he entered. "Please … no … "

He rushed in, gun drawn, before seeing the room empty, Neal thrashing in his sleep, but not getting very far. Restraints kept both arms close to the bed, confining Neal neatly. Peter wasn't sure why Neal was still restrained-he knew Neal could get out of the cuffs if he wanted, but ignoring the issue, he approached the bed quickly, putting a hand on Neal's uninjured shoulder. "Neal? It's Peter. I'm right here."

"Peter? I'm …" Neal's voice held that high note of panic that Peter had heard too often over the past week.

"Shhh, you're safe," he soothed. "I'm right here."

Neal's eyes popped open, blue and disoriented. "They're taking me back? Please, Peter," begged Neal, "please, I tried …"

"No. You're fine. You're in the hospital, and when you're through here, I'll be taking you to my home. You're safe, Neal. No one is taking you anywhere right now." Peter made his voice sound firm and final and authoritative.

With a gasp, Neal woke up fully. "Peter? I … " he blinked, once, twice. "I must have fallen asleep. Silly." Neal grinned self-deprecatingly, as if it had all been a joke.

But it hadn't. Peter sat on the hard chair and watched Neal lie there, his eyes closed and his arms bound, and sighed. "What's going on with you, Neal? I can't-"

"Peter … " and Neal blinked at Peter. "Who's my attending physician?"

"Uh ... it's-I don't know, Neal, why does it matter?"

"It's just important, all right?"

"I'll find out." Peter paused. "Neal ... I can't help you if you're not straight with me. Are you being threatened? Have you done something? Come on, Neal. Work with me here." Peter was genuinely at a loss.

"If, if I tell you—I", and here Neal swallowed, and his eyes slipped close before Neal forced them open with visible effort, "I'll tell _you, _if it'll help, help you understand. But I—I can't-"

"What, Neal? What can't you do?" Peter asked, when Neal spent long moments not speaking, just blinking at Peter.

"I can't tell Agent Burke." Neal's words held a touch of pleading, and Peter understood what he was asking immediately. It was something Peter had offered, once before, when Alex was missing and Peter needed to know everything Neal did about Kate and Adler, and wanted to know anything he could about Neal's mysterious past.

This time was no different.

"Okay, Neal. It might not change what I'll do, but-just tell me. Just me. No repercussions, not for things said and done. I swear."

"Promise?"

"My badge is in my coat, and on that chair. You have my word, Neal."

Neal looked sick and weak and desperate, and Peter knew Neal didn't really want to, knew better than to push Neal in that state, knew he was taking unfair advantage-but it had been days and hours of worry and fear and not knowing. So Peter just let him talk.

And in slow, halting words, Neal began to tell him a story, tell him things he never wanted to hear. About his last stint in prison, where OPR had put him without Peter's concern or care. About the Gateway, about life when exposed to the general prison population as a snitch, about knowing that he was in a place (once again, he thought he'd left it behind years ago and Peter told himself he didn't want to interrupt but really, really he just didn't want to know, couldn't handle knowing, not now when Neal was telling him things that he could never have imagined, never even thought-) where his glib tongue was no asset, and his pretty face a liability. Peter didn't ask for details, kept silent, didn't press, because what Neal was saying was bad enough.

And when Neal began talking about Dr. Crawley, about being vulnerable and injured and threatened by the professionals meant to help him; about being harmed and hurt by those very people, let alone the inmates; about knowing he'd been sent to the infimary once or twice on pretexts flimsy and fabricated by Crawley; about feeling unsafe and scared yet unable to escape, or even try—Peter wanted to kill something. He'd begun making this noise, almost like-

"I'm sorry, Peter," Neal was saying, "I know—I know it's hard to believe, you think I'm -"

"God, no," said Peter, horrified. It never occurred to him, not once, not to believe Neal. It never occurred to him that Neal would think he would not be believed. "I'm going to call Hughes. Crawley needs to be reported, needs to be-"

"No!" cried Neal, jerking up, slamming himself against the restraints and then going abruptly white with pain. "No, Peter, you promised-"

"Neal, I don't-"

"Peter, Peter … I … " But Neal was done in. Peter could see him fighting against it, so he leaned down to whisper, "Ok. I won't call Hughes now. Rest; well talk later."

Neal took a breath, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded raw and despairing. Peter could count on one hand the times he'd seen Neal so defenseless. And now, now Neal was pleading. "I just … please Peter. I know I just keep asking for more, and I keep doing it, but please. Please just let me get out of here."

Peter looked at Neal for a long moment, at the defeat and exhaustion in the uncharacteristically unguarded blue eyes. "Okay, Neal," he said, because God, what else could he say? Pure relief and wild hope flooded Neal's face, and Neal blinked rapidly. "Okay. I'll talk to them," Peter repeated. "No promises, though, all right?" he warned, because God knew what they'd say. Neal still looked terrible—and Peter knew there was no way he was anywhere near ready to leave the hospital. But Neal was wearing him down—he had worn him down. Worse, though, was the realization that Neal himself was wearing down, and Peter had to do _something_, even if it was the wrong thing.

"Peter, I-" began Neal, but he lost the battle even as Peter watched, and sagged into a light, restless sleep mid-sentence. By the time the nurse eventually wandered in, wondering what was up with Neal's elevated heart rate, Neal had already succumbed to sleep.

Peter ran a shaking hand through his hair. He couldn't say he wasn't grateful for Neal's involuntary nap. When Neal had suggested an explanation, when he'd-

He'd never expected the things he'd heard. Not in a million years. He wanted to tear Crawley limb from limb. He wanted to report the guards, the personnel, shut down the entire blight on law enforcement and corrections that the Gateway represented. He wanted –

He couldn't. Neal had treated his story like a confession of his own crime, and had asked Peter not to report it. Worse was the fact that Neal clearly felt like somehow, he was the one that had messed up somewhere in this scenario. As fucked up as it was, Neal would interpret any report as a betrayal, as-

Peter felt sick and dirty.

One thing was clear, however. He wasn't leaving this hospital again without Neal. Peter patted the blanket over Neal's leg, gripping for a moment, before pushing to his feet and going off in search of a nurse.


	6. Chapter 6

Getting Neal discharged, though, proved harder than he'd thought. "He's not doing well here; he'd like to leave," he explained to the young resident, just as he'd explained to the young nurse, and then the nurse's manager.

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be a good idea. His protein levels are higher than we'd like," said the resident.

Well, that was different, and was more of an answer than he'd heard before. On the other hand, it wasn't an answer Peter really liked. "Come again?"

The resident's mouth twisted, as if frustrated by Peter's ignorance. "We're worried about his renal function," he explained begrudgingly.

"He's in kidney failure?" Peter tried to squelch down the spike of worry.

"No," snapped the resident impatiently. "But we're monitoring him. If it doesn't improve, we'll get him on dialysis."

Peter wasn't sure what to do about that, so he decided to focus on the one thing he knew he could fix. "I also wanted to talk to you about the restraints. Neal is-"

"I understand that this patient is a criminal," interrupted the resident. "In these kinds of cases …"

"No," said Peter harshly. "He's not violent, and he's not a danger to any of your staff or patients. I promise you."

"He came in with a monitoring anklet," said the kid slowly, as if talking to someone of limited intelligence.

"Yes," said Peter, and nothing more. He glowered slightly. "And?"

"And, last night, after visiting hours were over and his friend left, he pulled a runner. Got into the parking lot before a nurse noticed-he probably wouldn't have lasted the night, in the condition he's in. The hospital's responsible for him-he should've been in restraints when he came in, and if he wasn't then, he certainly must be now. He's more alert now. The restraints are policy-just a precaution," explained the resident with exaggerated patience, holding up one hand when Peter's glowered deepened into an outright glare.

"You are not to restrain this patient without my authorization. Do you understand?" Peter hadn't meant to go all stern and commanding, but Neal was-he wasn't sure what Neal was, but the Neal screaming in his sleep wasn't the Neal Peter knew, and until Neal became himself again-well, he'd be damned if this young brat was going to harm Neal any further by his lack of understanding. Neal was already having nightmares, and Peter knew he didn't react well to any kind of restraint.

"Sir, I understand what you are saying from a public safety standpoint. But you do understand that in terms of patient treatment, you have little jurisdiction here." The kid's voice was filled with arrogance and authority, and his jaw was set in a stubborn line. He'd already turned away and was examining another patient's chart, clearly distracted.

But this kid was also in charge of Neal, of Neal's care. Of his life. Peter wanted so, so badly, to hit him, but also knew it would accomplish nothing, and would not help. "Just let me know when he's ready to be discharged," Peter spat out, and then turned on his heel, going back to Neal's room with the bad news.

Neal was lying on his back, listlessly staring at the wall, when Peter returned. Alone, Neal looked very young, and the expression on his face betrayed discomfort and defeat and exhaustion. Peter watched him for a moment, pausing outside the door, before clearing his throat and entering the room.

"Sorry, buddy. No can do. They're worried about your protein levels." He said the words as gently as he could, knowing how badly Neal wanted out.

"So I won't eat any meat. Please Peter." Peter had to look away from those begging blue eyes. The knowledge that for once, this wasn't a con but the unvarnished truth, was painful.

"I'm afraid not, Neal." Peter tried to gentle the words, but they came out stern and harsh despite himself.

Neal looked at Peter for a minute with overbright, blue blue eyes, and then he slumped slightly in the bed. "All right, it's fine. Thanks for trying." Neal smiled brightly at Peter, as if everything was okay.

"I also couldn't get them to budge on the restraints," he said, adding, softly, "They said you tried to run last night? You didn't mention that part." Peter didn't want to believe that Neal would take the opportunity to run. He didn't believe that Neal was that stupid, for starters, but more than that-

Neal looked uncomfortable, trying to shift within the restraints and failing to get very far.

"You had a nightmare, didn't you?" asked Peter with sudden insight, and the quick flash of shame on Neal's face was enough to confirm it. "Oh, Neal. I'm-"

"It's fine," said Neal quickly, putting a hand on Peter's wrist as if to reassure and still smiling that bright, bright smile, but cutting Peter's words off.

"Neal," said Peter helplessly, "I'm … I'm on your side, here. Don't … " _Don't li_e, Peter wanted to say, as the bright smile on Neal's face was directly contradicted by the increase in the heart monitor, the defeated slump of his body, as if he didn't know Neal well enough to know he was upset. But he didn't say it.

Peter squeezed Neal's hand, and then ruffled his hair, before exiting the room which had suddenly become too small, too confining. It didn't even have a window. He didn't know how Neal stood it.

_Neal's prison cell was almost the same size, and just as windowless_, a small internal voice reminded him.

It didn't help.

Peter didn't know what to do. He wanted to promise Neal he'd get him out of there, like his friend Haversham would have, he wanted to …

In desperation, he called Elizabeth.

"Peter? Is everything okay?" Even hearing Elizabeth's voice soothed him, made him feel less crazy.

"Neal wants out, but the doctor tells me they want to monitor him. They`ve stuck him in restraints, El." Peter let his frustration and upset colour his voice.

"Is there any reason he can't be monitored from home?" And this was why he'd married Elizabeth.

"I don't know," admitted Peter. "I didn't ask. He's an ass," he added, remembering how angry he'd become at the resident's callousness towards his friend.

"Who, Neal?" Elizabeth asked, startled.

"No, the kid who calls himself a doctor. He decided to restrain Neal because apparently that's standard protocol with criminals." Peter's voice was heavily sarcastic.

"Well, honey, he doesn't know Neal. You can't be angry at him for the suggestion." Elizabeth's tone was soothing and reasonable, but Peter was not feeling reasonable.

"I can when you consider Neal's been screaming in his sleep!" Peter ran a hand through his hair.

"Sweetheart … look, honey, I've got to go, but don't worry. I'll be there soon, as soon as this event is over, and we can sort it out with the medical staff, get the story and then make some decisions from there. If Neal's as miserable as that, and if they're that antsy, maybe we could figure out a way to get some home care."

"Actually, that's a good idea," said Peter, considering, and figuring a way to leverage their distrust of Neal into some home care options. He closed his eyes, imagining Elizabeth in the blue dress she'd worn that morning, talking to him on her cell. "I love you, you know."

"I love you back," said Elizabeth, the warmth and love in her voice a balm to his shattered nerves. "I'll see you both soon."

* * *

Peter called into the office, telling Hughes that Neal was being discharged and he wasn't coming in. Hughes was surprisingly understanding—while also demanding that Peter let him know what Neal had decided about the ongoing contract. Peter wasn't able to tell him that he simply hadn't really brought it up yet.

Elizabeth arrived mid-afternoon, after the morning christening she'd been dealing with was over. She took one look at Peter's face, and then at Neal's, before nodding firmly and leaving the room.

It took Elizabeth exactly 34 minutes to sort out Neal's discharge, arrange homecare, and inform Neal that he was coming home with her. Peter watched in both relief and amusement as a groggy and bemused Neal failed miserably to protest the arrangement, while she packed up his stuff and chatted lightly to him about the food at the christening and told Peter where and what to sign.

The hospital's discharge process itself took a good deal longer, and it wasn't until early afternoon that Peter was able to load Neal into his car and drive home. Conveniently, as it was Friday, Peter decided to take the rest of the day and work from home, while watching over Neal with an eagle eye. The homecare company El had arranged had sent over a nurse with even more instructions than the hospital had had, with what to watch for and how to change the I.V., because she wasn't able to stay on such short notice. It made Peter nervous, which he compensated for by being extra-vigilant; the close scrutiny made Neal fidgety and restless, unable to settle but unable to do much of anything but allow the attention. Peter was much harder to charm than the nurses, and while they were trained to deal with recalcitrant patients, Peter had trained himself to deal with an evasive Neal. Given the discharge tension, he'd already let Neal get away with skipping most of breakfast and with only a frown, allowed Neal to barely nibble at his lunch. By dinner time, Peter was growing more and more stern and Neal was getting more and more desperate.

Despite Neal's discomfort with Peter's over-attentiveness, the bed in Peter and Elizabeth's home was still far more comfortable than the one in the hospital, with sheets soft and fine and a pile of down pillows. Their house was quiet, but not overly so, and while it still wasn't his bed, Neal hadn't had the kind of life where he could afford the luxury of wanting his own bed at night-when he even had one. He slept well, and frequently, for most of the day. He hadn't realized how tired he was, but given the opportunity, he felt like he could sleep forever, if only Peter would let him.

He took his opportunity the next morning, when Peter could no longer help himself and was clearly desperate to go into the office; Elizabeth had a wedding all weekend and couldn't be home either. He called Mozzie, and let Moz arrive before sending Peter on his way, but he knew Mozzie was uncomfortable around sick people, and now that Neal was home, he made short work of persuading Mozzie to leave as well. Much to his unconcealed joy, Mozzie had brought him a sketchpad, a set of nibs and an array of pencils, and he let both Mozzie and Peter see how happy the gift made him, how all he wanted was some peace and quiet to sketch in.

It wasn't untrue. Once everyone had gone and the house was quiet, Neal made himself coffee (against the doctor's recommendation, but he hadn't had a cup for weeks) and had a shower (carefully, because he was not supposed to but he hated that he didn't feel clean) and made his slow, limping way down the stairs and painfully across the hall and through the kitchen patio doors, where he sat in a patch of sunlight on a faded plastic lawn chair and drew.

Neal drew for hours. He drew birds, and he drew the sky. He drew the sun, and he drew the schoolchildren rushing past.

He wished he could paint. Painting would have been better, but painting required standing, and he couldn't manage that. Even he knew that.

Three days left. He tried not to wonder what he would do. He tried not to wonder if they'd really let him go.

He'd heard Peter talking about a new C.I., thought Peter had wanted him to ask, but he didn't, because he already knew what that meant. It meant he was about to become redundant.

Neal wasn't stupid. He knew Peter still wanted to report Doc Crawley. He knew Peter thought it would help. But his father had always told him-for years, growing up, when he'd been in pain from yet another broken bone or bad fall-that doctors would just hurt him, and take him away. Crawley had been the first doctor Neal had ever had any real experience with-aside from Dr. Powell-and both of them had proven his father, in this one particular instance, right. He tried to manage his fear. He knew Peter would win-he'd known it the second he confessed, but he'd had no choice, he'd ihad/i to get out there-but he was holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, Peter would protect him after all-that when Peter promised something, gave his word, he wouldn't wiggle out of it, not on a technicality, no matter how much he might want to.

He needed to talk to Peter about it. He needed to, but in his current state, he knew it wouldn't go well. He wasn't sure if it was the medications, or the stress of the last few weeks, but he knew that he had no control anymore, no perspective, and no ability to hide.

Especially not from Peter, who had always seen too much.

So Neal kept drawing. He drew all the things he hadn't let himself draw, all these years. Some of the things that Mozzie had destroyed, but all the things he hadn't let himself think of for the past nine years. He drew mountains and bridges and lakes. He drew anything he wanted-but even now, even after everything, he didn't draw his family-and he couldn't draw Kate.

He wondered if, one day, he'd be able to.

When Peter woke him up, the yard was dark and chill and Neal was stiff and sore, and he had missed his last two doses of medication. Peter was furious, and worried, and the sketchbook lay on the ground, forgotten, as Peter dragged him to his feet and back inside their warm, bright home.

* * *

Peter put Neal to bed, brought him a tray, and then proceeded to scold him all through dinner.

Neal, for his part, focussed on his food, both to avoid answering Peter and hoping that watching him eat might calm Peter's ire a little. He knew that anger was Peter's default setting, knew that it was merely worry and concern and maybe even a bit of misplaced guilt, and under better circumstances, he would deflect and tease and coax Peter out of his rage. But Neal was not on top of his game, and the anger made him flinch inwardly, made him feel stifled and tense. Not even half way through dinner he stopped, feeling something inside him stab and lurch, making him nauseous and breathless all at the same time. He stopped eating, trying to cover with moving things around on his plate and hoping Peter was too focused on his ranting to notice, but he was not that lucky. Both El and Peter had turned to him in alarm, and for a moment, he wanted to hide under the bed, run away until he was fine again, until he didn't need to try so hard, until he didn't need to wonder if all his reactions and feelings were ridiculous anxiety or something more. Had he been anywhere else, Neal would have smiled, tossed his head, made some clever remark-refocussed the marks. But he simply couldn't manage it. And then something twisted inside him, and he couldn't control himself, could barely manage to turn to one side before he was violently sick all over the Burke's guestroom floor, miserable in his agony.

He wanted to throw something. Too bad he didn't even have the energy to sit up.

Peter caught him before he could fall.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Sorry, this was posted on LJ a while ago, but I realized I never posted the rest here. For those of you following, I hope you enjoy the rest :-)._

* * *

"He's so thin." Elizabeth's eyes were dark with concern as she slathered lotion over her legs, getting ready for bed.

"He'll gain the weight back. He just has to eat." Peter's voice was steady and confident, belying his own worry. Neal had felt so-insubstantial-in his arms. As if he'd blow away. And when he'd come home to a home that was dead silent, Neal missing from his room and nowhere to be found, when he'd searched the house and after fifteen minutes of frantic activity and a call to the Marshalls, thanking God that Neal's anklet still had a couple days of time left on it, when he'd found Neal slumped on the recliner on the patio, so still and his skin chilled-it had taken a moment before he realized that Neal was alive and just asleep, and that he could breathe again. He swallowed the image down before speaking. "I'll call the on call doctor in the morning. Get him something for the nausea."

"Yes, honey, that would be a good idea," said Elizabeth, her tone warm and gentle, her touch on his arm, against his side comforting. "What are you going to tell Reece?"

"I don't know. Neal's - well, look at him. I don't feel right about pressuring him right now, not like he is. I just-let him stay here, get back on his feet, and then he can think about what to do. I know what Reece wants-what the Bureau wants-but Neal didn't even have a chance to finish high school. Working at the Bureau for shit pay because he doesn't have the education for an agent's salary? Especially with Neal's talents, and skills, and with him taking the risks he does-it's not fair. I don't - I don't think I could sell him on it. I don't think I want to."

"Then don't," said El, putting her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He breathed her in, letting her scent and her warmth comfort him. "Sweetie, we've talked about this. I'll support you-and Neal, but it's Neal's choice. So just give it to him. He's smart enough to figure out what he wants to do."

"He once asked me, when I was pretending to be that rich accountant-if I hadn't missed that life. Didn't wish that was the road I'd followed. I didn't-I don't-but it's the life Neal could have had, maybe should have had, if his life had been different, if he'd made different choices. If he'd had the choices I had. He's young still, El. It's the life he still could have, if he wanted it."

"That's the life you want for him. It might not be what he wants, Peter."

"I know, but the Bureau-" Peter began, worry lines still creasing his forehead.

"Peter." El took his face between her hands and kissed him, hard and fast, and for a moment, he lost himself in her. When he blinked his eyes open, she said, "You're not going to figure it out tonight, and not without first discussing it with Neal. Let's get some sleep; tomorrow will come soon enough."

* * *

Peter slept lightly, waking every few hours, worrying that Neal was still having nightmares-but it appeared he slept through, for which Peter was grateful. Still, in the morning, after Neal picked at the dry toast and ate barely half, made a face at the juice and flatly refused any eggs, Peter broke it to him that he was going to have to call the doctor. Neal, predictably, balked.

"No. I'm fine." He grinned, wide enough to blind an elephant.

"Neal, you haven't eaten anything since you've been home, and I know it's not my cooking." Peter tried to grin, but he knew it was weak.

"So I'll eat." There was a trace of obstinacy creeping in, and a wild look in Neal's eyes. "I'll have lunch, just-"

Peter cut him off. "Neal-Look, Neal, remember all those times I told you to cowboy up? Well, this isn't one of those times. This isn't something you can fix by ignoring it, or pretending it will go away. We need to fix this, before it gets worse." He tried to sound coaxing, knowing he was messing it up. He was just no good at this.

"No, _we_ don't need to do anything, and I'm fine. I've already compromised on the damn I.V., and that's more than enough. Seriously, Peter, stop worrying." Neal had clearly dug in his heels, sounding like he was on the verge of a full-blown pout-but Peter wasn't fooled, and he wasn't backing down.

"The I.V. is just antibiotics, Neal. You're probably dehydrated, and I think you're still running a fever."

"You're over-reacting-" Neal was panicking-he was trying to hide it, but his defenses were down, and Neal had never been that good at conning Peter anyway.

"Neal. I'm not. You said you trusted me. So trust me now. I'll be right here, I promise. It won't be like before. I'll even stay with you for the exam, if you want." Peter put his hand over Neal's and squeezed it, trying to reassure.

Neal took a breath; let it out. "You promise?"

"You have my word, Neal. I just want you to get something for the nausea, make sure that kidney issue is getting resolved, and that the antibiotics are treating the infection properly. The resident didn't know what he was doing-but we still need to be careful. C'mon, just get checked out."

"Peter, you won't-you won't make me go back to the hospital, will you? Because I won't go. I won't. I'll-" his voice began to rise, and Peter cut him off.

"Neal, Neal relax. I'm not going to force you to do anything. We've got a system here, and if it's not working, we'll figure something out."

Neal looked at Peter searchingly. He took a breath. "No hospital," he repeated. Okay, Peter?"

"Whatever you want, Neal." Peter squeezed Neal's cold hands in his own. "Trust me. Just relax."

The doctor from the service Peter called-a small, balding man wearing a yarmulke, dressed in a dark coat and jeans, and looking vaguely irritated with everything in general, arrived just before lunch. He agreed to examine Neal upstairs, and didn't require that Neal do much more than take off his shirt. He was quick and efficient and professional, and did not speak unless necessary, even when Peter made awkward jokes.

Neal, for his part, was pretty good for the exam. He lay still and complied with everything asked. Peter stayed in the room, and much to Neal's embarrassment, grasped Neal's hand before the doctor began. Neal blushed, but he didn't let go.

Neal began to get more fidgety towards the end of the exam, and not even the doctor's quelling look stilled him. He was starting to reach the end of his endurance, and Peter willed the doctor to hurry as he finished by examining the wound, which still looked raw and ugly to Peter's eyes. "This may hurt a little. Ready?"

And Neal flinched and made a high, breathless sound of distress, his hand clenching Peter's hand—before going limp. By the time the doctor was finished, Neal was pale and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

"That's it," said the doctor. "Mr. Burke, a word?"

"Can I have a minute with him first?"

"Sure," said the doctor, his face betraying no expression. "I'll be waiting outside."

Alone in the room, Peter turned to a white-faced Neal. "Neal, Neal you did great." Peter wiped Neal's forehead, stroked a hand down his cheek. "I want you to sleep for a little while, can you do that?"

"But … but Elizabeth made lunch …" Neal's voice was barely a whisper. He was clearly at the end of his strength.

"Shhhh. We'll have it later. Don't worry. Just sleep, ok?" Peter was no good at this, he knew he was no good at this, and telling Neal to cowboy up was clearly not-

"Ok." Neal tried, tried to smile, Peter watched him try. "Ok … "

"Good. Close your eyes now." He dropped a hand onto the dark waves. "Good …"

Peter waited a moment, until Neal seemed to relax, and his breathing evened out. He wasn't sleeping, Peter knew—but he was at least emulating sleep, and that was the best Peter could hope for at the moment. He slipped quietly out of the room.

"He needs to get more rest," said the doctor briskly, packing up his bag as Peter approached him by the front door. "He looks exhausted. Hasn't he been sleeping?"

"He … he's been having some nightmares." Peter didn't think he'd had one last night, but with Neal, who knew? Peter had been down the hall, and while he hadn't heard Neal scream, for all he knew, Neal had pulled his trick of not sleeping at all.

"I could prescribe a sleeping aid," suggested the doctor.

Peter almost snorted. "He won't take it."

"Well, at this rate, he's not going to make much improvement otherwise. He's dehydrated and underweight. He hasn't shaken the infection-could even be something he picked up at the hospital; I'll need you to send me a urine sample, too. You've signed up for daily nursing care?" The doctor was scribbling something on a pad of paper as he spoke.

"Alternate days. They showed us how to manage the I.V.," added Peter, feeling large and stupid and out of his depth. The doctor looked up at him sharply, and for a moment, Peter felt like the doctor could see right through him-his doubts and his fears and his conflict over Neal's contract.

Then the doctor turned back to his notes. "I'll adjust the antibiotics to something a bit stronger, and he should improve. The nausea there's not much to do about-the stronger antibiotics will be harder on his stomach-but I'll throw something in for that too, and fluids. You'll need to get daily nursing if you're going to keep him at home, for at least the next few days, and make sure they track blood and urine samples. Tell the nurses to let me know if he doesn't improve in a few days." The doctor smiled at him abruptly. "Your young man will be fine, don't you fret. Are you related?"

"Not exactly." How to explain that Neal was the convict he helped put behind bars, who was now working with him, who he hoped would continue to work with him, and who he was now taking out a second mortgage on his home so he could have home care? It was too absurd.

"Well, nonetheless," said the small doctor in his no-nonsense way, when no further answer seemed forthcoming. "Have a nice day, Mr. Burke."

* * *

"Neal's restless," said Elizabeth, in the middle of dinner preparations as Peter walked in the door on Wednesday. "You should go up to him."

Peter nodded and climbed the stairs slowly. They were both so tired. Neal was recovering-the nurses had assured them the treatment was working-and he was clearly doing better out of the hospital than in-but it was slow going. After the doctor's visit, Peter had put his foot down-Neal wasn't going back to June's-particularly not while she remained out of town, visiting with her daughter and Samantha -until he was at least eating solid foods consistently and off the I.V.. Although Neal sulked a bit, clearly wanting to go home and lick his wounds in private, he didn't fight Peter too hard. For the most part, he couldn't-he was too weak and too reliant on Peter and Elizabeth's help to make much more than a token protest, and partly, Peter knew that deep down, Neal didn't really want to be alone, either.

The rest of it was more complicated-Peter hadn't forgotten what Neal had told him, or the consequences of it, and Neal knew that. Peter had made sure not to mention it-he really didn't need to add any extra stress to Neal's condition right now-but he itched to report it. If what Neal said was true-and the way he'd said it, coupled with the anguish in his eyes, had left Peter with no doubt that not only was it true, it was far worse than what Neal had alleged-then Crawley needed to be stopped. Peter wasn't used to thinking of inmates as a vulnerable population-but in many ways, they were. It made him physically ill to think of Neal, his Neal, at the mercy of someone who'd harm him like that.

But that was a problem-like so many-that needed to be dealt with later. In the meantime, Peter had also insisted that Neal start talking to them-he was tired of Neal pretending he felt better than he did, of feigning sleep or pretending to eat; it made it difficult to assess his condition, when neither Elizabeth nor Peter had any way of knowing better, and when the visiting nurse was only there for a few minutes a day. So Peter reminded Neal, every chance he got, of the consequences of lying-a return to a hospital bed, four point restraints, and an ugly blue gown. Neal wasn't a kid, even if he sometimes acted like one-he had to take responsibility for his own treatment, and neither Peter nor El had the kind of lives that would allow them to indulge a thirty-two year old child.

But Neal did make an (reluctant) effort to be honest, even though he clearly hated every admission of weakness, of being less than fine and perfect. Still, he did it-or at least, he wouldn't lie when asked a direct question, which was as much as Peter could hope for. He'd confess he'd been up half the night with nightmares, he agreed to ask Peter to stay when he was too nervous to sleep on his own. It visibly bothered Neal, Peter could tell, particularly because Neal was astute enough to realize than any admission on his part resulted in a new burden on Elizabeth or Peter. Neal, with his ridiculous need to please, hated being a burden on anyone-at least not overtly. He'd been plenty headache to Peter over the years, even if he hadn't really meant to be-but he hated actually _asking_ for help, whether or not he needed it. But Neal also kept telling them (like they couldn't see) that he was trying, and that being home helped, a lot. There was no question, though-it was obvious how much more relaxed Neal was out of the hospital. No matter what Neal did, there was no chance Peter was sending him back there-Neal just didn't need to know that.

But there were still a few nights-like apparently tonight-when Neal was visibly restless, when the fever took hold and confused his brain, made him querulous and uncomfortable and cranky, or just plain frightened. There were nights when Neal couldn't sleep for the pain he would only reluctantly admit to, because the painkillers prescribed apparently made him feel foggy and he didn't like them. Peter made him take them anyway, and would sit with him or at least check on him, frequently, to make sure Neal didn't feel abandoned, and to make sure he had what he needed.

So yes, it was a strain, and it wasn't easy-but Peter knew that neither he nor El would have had it any other way. Neal was making progress, albeit a little more slowly than initially anticipated, but that was fine. Neal was their friend, and Peter's partner. He might have been demanding by being undemanding, but Peter knew that in some ways, he actually felt better having Neal close, where he could keep an eye on him for a few days, assure himself that Neal was okay.

He entered the bedroom, where Neal was tossing fitfully, sleeping but obviously uncomfortable. Peter frowned, and went back about halfway down the stairs. "El?" he called.

"Peter?" she answered, clearly distracted. "Everything okay?"

"When was Neal's last painkiller?"

"I don't know honey, but I've been home a few hours, and he's been like that the whole time."

Peter sighed, and climbed back up the stairs. "Neal," he said, shaking one bony shoulder, and steeling himself for the inevitable argument, "come on, buddy, wake up ..."


	8. Chapter 8

Neal continued to improve, and after a few days, he managed to sleep peacefully through the night, with the door open and Elizabeth and Peter snoring in the room directly across from him, Satchmo across his feet. A few days later, and they were able to disconnect the I.V., and Neal was permitted to come downstairs for meals, and to sit outside if he wanted without raising Peter's blood pressure. And even though through it all, Neal was sweet and charming and rarely actually asked for anything, having him in their house and ill was demand enough. Much as they loved him, and much as he loved them, they were all relieved when Peter finally deemed him well enough to go back to June's.

And it was the day after that, a bright and sunny Thursday morning, that Peter finally felt able to go over to June's home, climb up to her rooftop terrace and sit in the sunshine, drinking her fine Italian roast and waiting for Neal to wake up. The contract Hughes had asked him to sign sat in a folder in front of him, and he'd practiced the proposal El and he had worked out in his head about a thousand times. Still, he wiped his pants on his hands, waiting for Neal, and waiting to cut his tracker, which had gone dead over a good week ago.

Neal was finally free, and as he waited, Peter admitted to himself that he was scared shitless about what might happen next.

Neal woke up about an hour later-uncharacteristic for him usually, but he was still healing. He was groggy and awkward as he made his way out to the terrace, his still healing body robbing him of his usual grace. He paused, the bright smile on his face slipping slightly when he saw Peter.

"Peter! What's up?" Neal asked, startled and trying to recover.

"Nothing much, just wanted to see how you were getting on. June was kind enough to let me up; we didn't want to wake you." Peter did his best to seem genial and innocuous. The conversation he needed to have would be difficult enough, he didn't need Neal any more defensive and guarded than he already was.

"I'll leave you boys alone," said June. "Besides, Samantha was coming over for a visit with her mother this morning, and I need to make some preparations. We're going to the zoo."

"Tell Samantha to say hello to the tigers for me," said Neal. "They were always my favourites."

"I'll be sure to do that, dear. You boys have fun, now."

"Thank you for breakfast, June. It was delicious as always," said Peter.

"It's my pleasure," replied June. "Now I really must be off, and I believe you both likely have some business to discuss that I had best not interfere with."

Peter smiled weakly, while Neal looked mildly curious, but it was his con face. His eyes held more than a trace of panic. They both waited politely while June packed up the breakfast tray, leaving coffee and a croissant, along with some fruit for Neal.

"So, Peter, what brings you here on a Sunday morning?" asked Neal once June was out of earshot. "I can't believe that you would miss me already." His voice was light and teasing, but Peter could sense the tension.

So much for putting Caffrey at his ease. "Neal, we need to talk." Peter leaned forward.

Neal shifted, his jig up, letting Peter see he was uncomfortable. "That never bodes well, but all right. So talk."

"Eat some fruit while I talk," ordered Peter roughly, seeing Neal make no move towards the food in front of him, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug like a lifeline. "You're still too skinny."

Neal put down the china mug in favour of nervously picking at the bowl of fruit in front of him, finally selecting a lone blueberry that he ate way more slowly than any blueberry had a right to be eaten.

"Well, first, you're free and too thin. El wants you to come to our place next Saturday for a BBQ, celebrate your freedom. We're going to invite Dana and her husband Gary-you remember him, and he makes the best hot wings, I promise you-you can even invite Moz if you want. And El made me promise also to tell you that it won't all be beer and hot dogs-she's overseeing the food and wine selection; it'll be good. She's even commissioned your bakery for cake. I'm trying to convince her to decorate it with a tracking anklet, but she isn't going for it."

"Uh ... okay. You don't have to sell me on it, Peter, I'm happy to come. Thanks." Neal, bemused but relaxing a tiny bit, nibbled on a piece of pineapple. Encouraged, Peter continued.

"And Hughes has been after me to unlock the anklet so we can give it to our new C.I. So may I?"

"Uh, okay. Sure." Peter raised an eyebrow at Neal's distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"I can't believe you haven't just cut it off by now," Peter said slowly.

"Honestly, with everything else, I kind of forgot it was there. Not like I've had any place to go the last few days." Neal had his con face on in full force, now. Peter didn't like it. Seriously, Neal had waited almost five long years to get that anklet off. Why the hell wasn't he leaping for joy now?

"Yeah. Right. So, about that ..."

"Peter, just tell me. What are they going to do to me?"

"Whoa, Neal. They're not doing anything to you. You're free now, got it? You can do anything you want-if it's criminal, I will catch you, but I'll have to go after you again. Hughes has offered you a contract. He's tasked me with the job of convincing you to take it."

"A contract." Neal blinked, surprised.

"Yeah. $50,000, and you become a full-time contract employee. There are even benefits."

"Benefits?" Neal blinked at him stupidly.

"Yeah. I don't know much about the day to day workings of being a career criminal-aside from the likelihood of living in a storage unit-but I do know that you don't get full dental." Peter grinned, trying to get Neal-who looked like he was in a state of shock-to relax.

"A contract." Neal echoed the words flatly.

"Yeah, Neal, a contract. I'm supposed to tell you how great it is. Hughes really wants you."

"Hughes wants me?" Neal asked the question slowly, disbelievingly.

"In the years you've worked with us, despite a few glitches, you've been a great asset, Neal. Reese would be an idiot not to recognize that, and Reese isn't an idiot." Peter tried to force enthusiasm and sincerity into his voice, trying to get Neal to understand the truth behind the statement, without letting his real feelings show.

"A contract." Neal was smiling now, his full on delighted Caffrey smile, which crinkled his eyes and lit up his face.

"Yeah, but here's the part I need to trust you not to tell Hughes or anyone at the office about. Can I do that?" Peter's voice had grown serious.

"Peter." Neal sounded just the right amount of affronted.

"I don't think you should take it." Peter said the words baldly, not knowing how else to say it.

"Oh." A pause, and then Caffrey, his exuberance noticeably dimmed, asked carefully, "Can I ask why?"

"Neal, the risks you've taken over the past year-being an FBI agent is a dangerous job. Ask El-every few years, she has a bit of a freak out about it, and then I spend the weekend buying her flowers and holding her close, so she remembers that I'm still here, I'm careful, and I'm not going anywhere, despite the risks. I come home to El, and I remember why I'm careful. You don't have that, not yet-and I see the risks you take. It's getting worse. I'm not-I'm not happy about that."

"Peter, that's stupid. I'm fine," Neal said, with no small amount of exasperation.

"No, it's not, but that's not all," replied Peter, not willing to let himself get drawn into an argument about it. "Neal, you'll be taking all the risks of a full agent-hell, you _know _some of the situations you've been thrown into have been worse than the risks a full agent takes-but you won't be a full agent. You'll_ never_ be a full agent."

"Peter, they can't make me an agent," began Neal in a patiently reasonable tone, "I don't have the educational requirements-"

"So get them." Peter's voice was matter of fact and full of aha! satisfaction.

"What?" Neal looked up at Peter in shocked surprise.

"I've talked it over with El. We'll co-sign a loan for you, you can consult part-time, and you can still go to school. I think-Neal, you're capable of so much more than this. After that, after you've gotten your diploma and maybe a degree-a real degree-you can figure out what you want to do. Neal, you're worth-"

Neal scrambled up, too quickly, listing to one side and then grabbing the table to steady himself, holding up a hand to fend off Peter who had half risen in alarm. "This? This is what you wanted to tell me? I hate to break it you, Peter, but you've spent almost five years telling me I'm a leopard, and now you think I can change my spots? By going to _high school_? You're-you think-I thought you weren't like that. I guess I was wrong."

"Neal. Calm down." Peter had thought of many ways this conversation could go, but Neal getting angry was not one of them.

"I will _not _calm down, hissed Neal, clearly wanting to yell, but not willing to raise his voice with Samantha possibly in the house. "I don't understand you. Do you think I'm not good enough to work for the FBI, anymore, now that I don't have a chain around my foot you can yank whenever you want? Do you-"

"No, Neal," said Peter forcefully, interrupting the tirade. "It's that I think you could do so much better. Listen, I work for the F.B.I., but I _chose _this. I went to school, and I had options, and this is the one I took. You didn't have that. As far as I can tell, this is the first real job you had. Remember that gig where I stayed in the luxury hotel for the accounting conference? That could be you."

"No, according to you, I could be the guy that stole from everyone at the conference." Neal's voice was full of anger and resentment.

"Neal, I'm trying to help you," Peter said, trying to calm Neal down, perplexed as to why Neal was so agitated.

"I don't want your help!" Neal all but shouted.

"Neal-what's going on with you?" asked Peter, genuinely confused. "This isn't like you."

"Are you going to tell Hughes about the prison thing?" Neal asked abruptly, anger flashing in his eyes.

"What?" Peter was taken aback at the non sequitur.

Neal raised his voice, his tone cold with fury. "Are you going to tell Hughes-"

And suddenly, something clicked. "Neal-No. I would _neve_r tell Reese what you told me, I just-I wanted-I want-to report him-it's not right," and Peter winced at his babbling choice of words, because it was so far from right it was-it was just-he had no words to express how angry and horrified and sad he was at what Neal had endured, and so he gave up, "and not only do you deserve justice, Crawley needs to be stopped-but I gave you my word. You told me that information in confidence-I know it was difficult for you, and you _have_ to know that I would never tell anyone unless you're okay with it. You have my word, Neal. You know-you _have_ to know, I would _never_ betray you, not like that. And, for what it's worth-if you decide never to press charges, I'll completely support that. And no, I will never tell Hughes what you told me, unless you wanted me to-or unless your safety was at stake."

"I don't want him to know," said Neal, in a small voice. "I don't want anyone to know, no matter what-not even-I know you tell Elizabeth everything, but-"

"I wouldn't tell her this," said Peter forcefully. "Neal, it's not my place to tell anyone, you got that? Not _anyone_, not unless you wanted me to and were okay with it."

"Or unless you thought they needed to know," said Neal flatly.

"No, Neal-listen to me," implored Peter, willing Neal to understand. "I would _only_ say something if I thought your safety, or that of someone else, for whatever reason, was at immediate risk unless they knew. I am being honest-if you were in danger and I had information that could help you, I would share it. You'll have to trust my judgement that I would only share it if you or another person were really in imminent danger, or if I really thought it could help, and then I would only share the information necessary to help, no more and no less. Do you trust me?"

Neal sighed. "That's not fair."

"Neal, I wouldn't do that to anyone, least of all you." Peter stated the words firmly, convincingly, brooking no argument.

"You think I'm being a coward." Neal accused, but sounding underneath it-not hurt, just resigned, as if he knew it was what he deserved.

"God, no, Neal. You've had to be strong your whole life-and you are. You've always been."

"But you think I should report it. Press charges. It's a crime, and you think all crime needs to be reported. You think that I-" Neal sounded like nothing so much as a lost little boy, and it made Peter's heart ache to hear that tone in it-self-recrimination, and self-loathing.

"Neal, _no_. I am angry by what he did to you-what they all did to you, what they allowed to be done to you. I am angrier than you know. It makes me sick to think of it, and it makes me even more sick to know that possibly, there's some other kid like you-young, good-hearted, with crappy judgement and no impulse control-"

"Thanks Peter," interjected Neal wryly, looking a bit embarrassed.

"Don't mention it," said Peter smoothly, not allowing Neal to distract him. "Anyway, it makes me sick to think he's out there, getting away with murder, worse, and living to repeat it. It does, Neal, I won't lie to you, and yeah. Yeah, I want to report him. No," and Peter held up a hand, "let me finish. It makes me sick, but I won't do it at your expense, Neal. Do you understand that? _You_ get to call the shots here."

"Even if I don't care about the other kid?" Neal was looking away, and wouldn't meet Peter's eyes.

Peter chuckled mirthlessly. "Neal, the one thing I do know about you is that you _do_ care about the other kid. You've never let your actions hurt anyone else if you could help it, even when it's at your own expense. Especially when it's at your own expense."

"So we're back to reporting him," said Neal bitterly.

"No, Neal. We're back to what I was telling you before-everything doesn't need to be at your own expense. You get to-you're supposed to-put yourself first, sometimes-I'm not talking about a con-when it counts. And for the record, I trust you to do the right thing, however you go about it. Reporting him is _m_y way, Neal. We've come too far for me not to see that sometimes, my way isn't always the only way. I think he should be charged, humiliated, shown for what he is-and stopped. I do. Like I said, I can't help that. But Neal-if you're not ready for all that, then I understand. It's not your job to always be brave and strong and self-sacrificing. There are hundreds of other people-inmates, guards, nurses-people who I bet knew what was going on, people's whose job it was to know what was going on, but who ignored that duty and didn't do a damn thing to stop it."

"Some of them helped," Neal murmured. "Crawley used to offer them drugs-morphine, stuff like that. Stuff that wouldn't necessarily kill anyone if it fell short. Creepy Crawley, they'd call him, but everyone knew what he had available, and what the cost was. "

Peter tried to control his expression. Every instinct in him made him want to tear Crawley limb from limb. He tried to calm himself, to think. He could get Diana to look into the man-quietly. There had to be something he could pin the guy on-even trumped up drug trafficking would be enough. In the meantime, he turned his thoughts firmly away from murder, and tried to focus back on Neal. "So, Neal, I asked you earlier if you trusted me."

Neal sighed again. "You know I do, Peter, even when I shouldn't."

"Then trust me now. The contract thing, the school thing, it has nothing to do with what happened to you in prison, Neal. You haven't let it define you, and you've accomplished so much. We're all proud of you-Jones, Diana, Bancroft-even Hughes. Our own modern day Abegnale. I just think-Hughes wants you in our corner, and my job is to get you there-but you deserve the opportunity to think about what _you_ want, to _do_ what you want. Whatever you want, Neal. Not what Hughes wants, or Mozzie wants-or what I want. I just want you to think about it." Peter paused a moment, and then added, with a slight emphasis, "Provided it's legal."

"What if I want things to stay the same?" asked Neal quietly, still looking away from Peter.

"Then take the contract. Just-just think about it first, will you? You could take a break, travel maybe. And if you change your mind later-offer's open, Neal." He reached out, slowly, and put a hand on Neal's shoulder. Neal startled slightly, but he didn't move away.

"Aren't you worried I'll run?" Neal asked sharply, looking up, his eyes intent on Peter's, examining him.

"You're a free man, Neal," Peter said gently, squeezing slightly. "It's not running if no one's chasing you."

Neal stared at Peter for a moment, flabbergasted. And that was the problem, wasn't it? That was the problem in a nutshell.

He didn't remember much of what Peter said after that. Platitudes and nonsense, stuff about a new C.I., but his mind was spinning, he couldn't figure out why they needed a new C.I. when they already had him and he got stuck on that, and Peter gave up once he noticed Neal's mind was no longer engaged. After he saw Peter out, with vague promises of coming over for that BBQ on Sunday with hot wings guy (_Gary, Peter, honestly, he'd corrected automatically_)-he sat down on the terrace and flipped open the sketchbook he'd managed to salvage from the Burke's patio last Saturday morning. He flipped through it, drawing by drawing. Pigeons and lakes, buildings and people. Drawing after drawing of things he hadn't seen for years, things he'd seen on the net, imagined, remembered from years ago. Things from his life now, from who he was. The things that he'd once painted, and that had been lost when he'd had to move, when he'd had to run, when he'd gone to prison. Mozzie had once asked why Neal even bothered storing them (because he had, when he could, in a storage locker as secure as any he'd used until Mozzie had cleared it out to use for something or other, without asking Neal first, not fathoming why Neal had become so upset) and Neal couldn't explain it. The pieces of his life were in that book, in those lost paintings.

He flipped through each sketch, and he thought about making more, but his mind was whirling and blank, and nothing would come.

Neal closed his eyes and wondered what came next.


	9. Chapter 9

"I can't, Moz," said Neal, as Mozzie poured himself a glass of Neal's good cava.

"Well," said Mozzie, full of bonhommerie, I know you're not working in the morning, but do not worry, _mon frere_-I knew you were still on antibiotics and whatever. I have for you the next best thing."

"What, soda pop?"

"Please! Perrier, the driver's beverage of choice. And you should eat something-I spoke to Mrs. Suit; she's worried. I didn't think you'd mind if I partook, however. After all, this _is _a celebration."

"Not at all, Moz, if you'd asked, considering it's _my_ wine. What's the occasion?"

"To you, finally leaving behind the Man and his means of control. You, my friend, are once again able to write your own destiny."

"Well," said Neal, shifting slightly in his seat. "About that." He paused, because the healing wound still pulled a little, and also, he hadn't completely formulated his thought in a way that wouldn't cause Moz to go through the roof. "Peter-well, the Bureau-has offered me a contract."

Mozzie snorted with laughter. "A contract! That's rich! After forcing you to labour for them for a paltry sum, they now want you to willingly sign your life away? Pshaw! I hope you told him what-"

"Peter doesn't want me to take it," said Neal bluntly, cutting off Mozzie's tirade.

"Wait a minute," said Mozzie slowly, eyes widening. "I take it, by this statement, that means that you do?"

"I might." Neal shrugged nonchalantly, elaborately casual.

Mozzie was, as expected, horrified. "Neal! Have you learned nothing from me this past decade? Seriously?"

"You know me, I'm open to exploring my options." They may have had a similar conversation while Neal was in prison. Neal knew Mozzie would remember.

"Neal, this isn't prison, you just got _out _of prison," Mozzie said with an elaborate hand gesture. "Besides," he added consideringly, "last time you said that, you went right back to the Suit."

"It's different now, Moz," said Neal simply.

Mozzie examined Neal intensely for a moment, before asking astutely, "What sense does the Suit want me to talk you into this time?"

Neal shrugged silently once more, looking away from the scrutiny. Moz smiled inwardly. Bingo. That small break was as close to a fidget as the con-man ever got.

"Please. The Suit _always_ has his reasons. What did he say to you?" Mozzie's voice was sharp and probing.

"He wants me to go to school. Get a degree, maybe." Neal said the words flippantly, at odds with the discomfort blatant in his eyes..

"And you don't want to?" asked Mozzie knowingly. "Or is it just that you don't want to leave the Suit behind?"

"I have never been averse to the idea of school, Moz. That's not the problem."

"Well, then, what is-because _if_ you want to," began Mozzie dubiously, "we could get the funds by liquidating-"

Neal cut him off. "Peter offered to pay. He and Elizabeth. I don't think they can afford it, though-they'd have to take out a second mortgage or something." Neal looked angry at the idea, the calm demeanour fading.

"I take it you do not want them to?" Mozzie asked the question hesitantly, watching the storm darken in Neal's blue eyes.

"I'm not a pet, Moz." The words were sharp and bitter.

"No," said Mozzie gently, "but I have already pointed out the deeply disturbing paternalistic relationship you have with the Suit."

"I'm not their kid, either." The words were even more bitter, verging on genuine anger, now.

_Did you want to be?_ thought Mozzie to himself, but aloud he said, "No, but for better or worse, the Suit feels responsible for you." Moz paused, and then leaned forward, and said, "You know the Suit cares about you, Neal. He's put himself on the line for you, more than once. Getting the mark to care about you is part of-"

"He's not a mark!" Neal half-rose, shouting, and Mozzie threw his hands in the air, fed up with this conversation and this difficult to deal with Neal.

"I don't understand you at all! What do you want from me, Neal?"

"Nothing," said Neal, closing his eyes. "I don't know. I think that's the problem."

* * *

Until Neal decided what he wanted to do-and Peter had convinced Reese that forcing Neal to decide when he was in pain and recovering from a job-related injury wasn't the best timing-Hughes had agreed to keep Neal on the payroll on a short-term contract, mostly to allow the F.B.I. to extend medical benefits over him until he was fully recovered. The terms weren't great, but did allow Neal to receive full medical until he got back on his feet, but a few weeks were all Hughes would allow-he was fair-minded, but wanted to keep the pressure on and wouldn't allow Peter to let go of that tactical advantage.

Neal recovered quickly enough in the time allotted-he was young and healthy, and between June and her staff, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Sara, and everyone else, he was more or less forced to follow medical advice, and so his convalescence remained on track-until the day came when he was permitted to go back to work. Given that there were still three weeks left on his contract, and his desk had remained untouched, eventually there came the morning he sauntered into the office, jaunty hat in place over his pretty curls, whereupon he was mobbed by half the office staff.

Clearly, he'd been missed.

Peter grinned, watching the crowd around Neal's desk. He let it go on until a bit after ten, at which time he came out of his office, barking at everyone about whether they had enough to do, and that they were stopping Caffrey from doing his job after he'd been off loafing for too long.

"Peter," said Reese, when the crowd parted to reveal him in the middle of the fray, "we're just updating Caffrey after he's been away. You understand."

Everyone laughed, and even Peter had to grin, but they all dispersed quickly enough after that, which had been Peter's aim. Peter knew Caffrey revelled in the attention-but he also knew that Neal needed a bit of breathing room right now. He e-mailed Neal to come up to his office after he'd had a chance to get settled, and they spent the rest of the morning de-briefing.

By the end of the morning, back in sync, it was like Neal had never left, like the last few months had never happened. Neal's wit was as sharp as his suits, his eye as keen as it ever was-and looking up at Neal, hunched over a file photo across his desk, suit jacket carefully hung on the back of his chair-Peter wondered how _he_ would cope if Neal really did leave White Collar.

* * *

It was late in the day when Peter stormed out of his office, did the double finger point at Neal, and stomped back into his office, clearly fuming.

Neal arrive, with a mock-frightened look on his face, asking, "I feel like I'm walking into the lion's den. What have I done now?"

"Close the door," snapped Peter tersely.

"Oookay," said Neal, complying, taking only a small step into the room, but keeping a good distance between himself and Peter. "What-"

"I hear Ruiz approached you for Organized Crime." Peter's eyes were blazing, and he was clearly livid.

"Hey, Peter, whoa. Slow down," said Neal, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "So what if he-"

"He did! And you're considering it. Dammit, Neal!" Peter thumped his fist on his desk in frustration.

"Peter, you know me, I'm just keeping my options open." Neal kept his face open and friendly and non-threatening, smiling equanimously.

"Ruiz is not an option!" erupted Peter, rising out of his chair to point and gesticulate.

"He is. A well-paying one, too. "Not only would I get the same salary I was offered for White Collar, I'd get hazard pay-"

"You _are _a hazard!" yelled Peter, loud enough that people in the bullpen below turned their heads to look up through the glass. "No!"

"Peter ... " said Neal, amusement clear in his voice, "you can't actually tell me what to do anymore, you know."

And Peter deflated. "I-I guess I can't." Neal wanted to snatch the teasing words back. He _had _been planning to talk to Peter about the offer-of course he had. He just hadn't, yet, but he hadn't meant to keep it from the older man either.

"Peter, look, I was going to-" began Neal.

Peter waved him off, clearly collecting himself. "No, you're right. It's fine. I'm sorry. Listen, Neal, there's something else I want to talk to you about," said Peter awkwardly, gesturing to a chair, and running his hands through his hair.

"What?" asked Neal brightly, taking the offered seat, happy to move on.

"With your permission, I'd like to ask Diana to look into Crawley." The words dropped like stones into the sudden silence.

"What? Why?" Neal forced himself not to take a step back, not to give into the urge to physically run away. He hadn't expected-

"You know why," Peter said steadily, keeping his voice low and neutral.

"You said you wouldn't tell anyone!" Neal tried to keep the panic from his voice.

"And I won't," Peter said immediately, firmly, and Neal managed to draw in a breath at that solid reassurance. "Not without your permission. Not ever. But Neal-I can't stand this. I can't fix it-it's too late for that-but I can't stand to let it continue. I know, if you thought about it, you couldn't-"

"I don't! I don't want to think about it!" Neal tried to stop his voice from rising, but it was like all his control had been shattered by the unexpected turn in the conversation.

"Neal, eventually you're going to have to," said Peter frowning.

"No, I don't, Peter," said Neal stubbornly. "You shouldn't either-can't you just forget about it?" There was a desperate edge to Neal's voice, and Peter's heart broke to hear it.

"I won't mention it again, if you don't want me to, Neal. But no, I can't just forget it. I'm sorry. I just want to help-"

"Really? So now, you want to help? Peter, I'm sorry, but"-Neal bit off his last words.

"But what? Just say it, Neal. Whatever it is, just-"

"It's a little late for that, now isn't it?" interrupted Neal, bitterly, angrily.

"I don't understand, what are you-"

"I told you back then too, and you didn't help." Neal hurled the words at Peter almost accusingly, wanting to hurt him, wanting to-

"What? I didn't-" Peter had gone pale, confused but horrified at the very suggestion.

"The cards, Peter. I sent you birthday cards. I didn't-I didn't know who else to-" Neal began to falter, remembering his hope, remembering how he'd waited, remembering the lack of response, remembering how he had no other options, remembering the despair when no one came-

"Oh, God. Oh, God, Neal." Peter's face was white with shock.

"You never answered them. You never even tried to get in touch with me-" Neal knew his voice shouldn't sound that broken, he wasn't-

"Neal, back then, I didn't-I was trying to put you behind me, a case I'd spent too much time on. I didn't even know you back then, Neal-and I never even guessed-" Peter was trying to explain, recovering a bit from his shock, and abruptly, Neal didn't want to talk about it.

"What will you tell her?" Neal interrupted, shifting gears again.

Peter tried, still reeling. "Neal, I swear to you, I didn't-"

"It doesn't matter. What are you planning to tell Diana?" Neal's voice was hard and unyielding.

Peter sighed. "Nothing. Nothing about you, I swear it. But Neal, I won't lie to you either. It's Diana. She's smart. If I ask her to do this, she'll take an educated guess as to why." Peter was trying very hard to keep his tone neutral, not to persuade Neal one way or another. This had to be Neal's decision.

"I ... I don't-" Neal stumbled over the words. His eyes were wild and Peter couldn't stand it. Hated that he'd been the one to do this, to bring this up again.

"Just think about it, okay? You don't need to tell me right now," Peter tried to sound reassuring and calm, trying to get Neal to understand that all he was trying to do was give Neal an option-

"Okay," Neal whispered.

"What?" Peter asked, startled. What did Neal mean by-

Then Neal nodded, firmly. "Okay."

"Good." Peter nodded back. "Just take your time, and whatever you decide, I'll-"

"No, no, I don't want to. Just go ahead. Let Diana do it. I don't want to think about it. It's fine." Neal said the words in a rush.

"Neal," said Peter, concerned that he'd messed up, somehow-conversations with Caffrey, dammit, were full of unexpected booby-traps-"there's no pressure here. You should-"

"No." And Neal, impossibly, was smiling, bright and wide. You'd have to know him really, really well to see the cracks behind the smile, Peter thought.

Peter knew him really, really well.

"Go ahead. It's fine, Peter," repeated Neal.

It wasn't fine. It was far from fine. Neal's hands, Peter could see, were shaking. But Neal had clearly made a decision.

_How badly did he hurt you?_ Peter wanted to ask; the words were on the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed them down, and leaned forward instead, taking those trembling hands in his own, "Okay," Peter said, squeezing lightly over the cold fingers. "Okay."


	10. Chapter 10

"Neal", said Peter, leaning down near Neal's desk, not even a full week later. "We got him." Peter smiled, grim satisfaction on his face while repeating the words. "We got him."

The words were cryptic, and they were working on half a dozen cases at the moment. Neal glanced up at Peter, startled, wondering-

Peter meant Crawley. The look in his eye, the smile on his face-Crawley.

Neal smiled, tried to make it look like it was supposed to look (how was it supposed to look? He didn't even know, so he defaulted to happy and breezy and cheerful but clearly that was wrong, because Peter was giving him an odd look but-)

They'd gotten Crawley. But-

Neal forced himself not to think about it. Not to think about it.

The next few hours were a blur. His mind raced with a thousand questions. He asked none of them. He threw himself into paperwork and cases and chatting with anyone who'd listen. He avoided Peter, who kept trying to get him alone, spending most of the afternoon conveniently away from Peter's reach, consulting in whichever other department had been trying to get him, and some that hadn't. But then, then all that was left was the subway and home.

And his mind wouldn't stop spinning. They'd gotten Crawley, Peter had said. Did that mean they'd just found something, but were still investigating? Had they arrested him? Was he already in jail? Neal hadn't asked, hadn't wanted to know-but now, he needed to know. It was late-late in the day, Peter was at home, at home with Elizabeth-he could call, Peter wouldn't-Peter would be irritated, he couldn't ask-

Even if he wasn't in jail, Neal reasoned, even if he'd just been charged, they'd suspend Crawley, at least during the investigation, at the very least. Neal wondered what kind of evidence they had. He wondered how strong it was, particularly if he didn't-and he had no intention to-testify.

But-but they would've suspended Crawley without notice, without warning. How would Jacobs get his morphine for the cancer pain that he didn't want to tell the authorities he had? He still had two years left. Crawley just snuck it to him, no questions asked, no payment either. He'd just said he had a grandma that had died, once, and no one should have to suffer that.

And sometimes-sometimes Crawley had been - kind. He'd-Neal had once been in the infirmary on his birthday, and while Crawley hadn't let him out, he'd-he'd taken him out to the yard, let him stay there for hours, and had given him ice cream after. It hadn't-Neal remembered the ice cream, cold and sweet on his tongue. He'd never tasted anything so good.

And once, once when Neal actually had been sick, Crawley had-

Neal lay on his bed and tried not to think about it. What Crawley had done-it hadn't actually been that bad, some of the men in there-some of the men had been through worse-before Crawley, _Neal_ had been through worse and, marked as the good doctor's, Neal had at least been spared the attentions of the other inmates, so in a way Crawley had done him a favour-and Neal hadn't wanted to press charges, hadn't even wanted anyone to investigate, he hadn't, but he'd agreed, in the end he'd agreed-

He lay on his bed, and tried to sleep. He drifted, for who knows how long, until his mind seized on a thought and wouldn't let go.

They'd kill Crawley in prison. He'd be beaten, and raped, and eventually murdered. He wasn't like Neal-he wouldn't survive. He wouldn't-

He could picture Crawley, bleeding and battered, begging for mercy. He imagined Jacobs, cursing Neal in the middle of the night while he writhed in pain. Neal was responsible. It was all his fault. How could he have let this happen? How could he have let-

He needed to talk to Peter. He needed to talk to Peter, right now, he had to, he had to -

The phone was in his hand and he was dialing without thinking.

"Burke." Peter's voice barked into the phone, rough with sleep. Peter had been sleeping, he'd -

"Peter? Peter, I just-I needed-" Neal couldn't organize his thoughts, he shouldn't have called-

"Caffrey, it's past two in the morning, where are you?" Peter's voice was loud and peevish in Neal's ear, and Neal didn't know how-

"I -" The phone shook in his hand.

Peter interrupted whatever he'd been about to say, demanding, "Are you okay?"

Neal swallowed, taking a breath, looking up at the clock, and realizing, "I'm - I'm fine, I'm at home, I just, I didn't know, I hadn't looked at the time, tell Elizabeth I'm sorry-" he knew he'd woken Elizabeth, he hadn't meant to, but he had to know, he had to explain, had to-

"Okay, okay, slow down. What's this about, Neal?" Peter's voice was suddenly calm and so, so gentle and reasonable, Neal wanted to cry-Peter would fix it, Peter _had_ to fix it-

"Nothing, it's fine, I - it can wait, it can-" Hearing Peter's voice was almost enough, nothing would change in the next few hours, he should never have called, he could tell Peter in the morning-

"Neal. I'm coming over, okay? Whatever it is, we'll sort it out." Peter's voice had turned soothing, like he was talking down a vic-

Oh, God, what had he done? Peter couldn't come, what would he say, he was behaving like an idiot-"No! No, it's fine, I didn't mean-"

"I'm coming," Peter's voice was firm and strong and brooked no argument. "You stay there, and don't do anything until I get there, all right? Got it? Just hang tight. I'm on my way."

"No," said Neal helplessly, appalled at himself, he was getting everything wrong but now Peter was determined and he didn't know what to say-"you don't need to-"

"Neal," said Peter. "You're my friend, and I want to come. It's okay. I'll be there in half an hour."

* * *

Of course, as soon as Peter hung up the phone, that feeling of frantic returned, even if he'd convinced himself, while Peter was talking to him, that he could wait-he got up, he sat down, he made himself tea, but nothing helped and so he resorted to going out on the terrace and pacing and repeatedly telling himself that Peter was on his way and everything was okay until there was a knock at the door..

Neal came inside, through the French doors. He started walking towards the door. Peter was knocking. "Neal?" called Peter.

And Neal froze.

Peter was there. What would he say? What would he do? What-

And suddenly, Peter was inside. Peter was _here_ and Neal, whose trademark was glib words and bright smiles, had nothing. No words. No smiles. Nothing.

Peter smiled ruefully, somewhat awkward. "I think I disturbed June."

Neal didn't answer. Because now that Peter was finally here, Neal didn't know how to tell him. Didn't know _what_ to tell him. Didn't know how to ask. It was important that Neal ask in the right way, but Peter-Peter was hard. Peter knew Neal too well to fall for the usual things, and this was-

"Neal." Peter was right in front of him. "What's up?"

Neal was trying not to show his nervousness, but he suspected Peter knew.

"Neal. Why don't you sit down. You're cold." Peter was steering Neal towards the couch, and Neal was going unresisting. But this wasn't right.

He didn't need Peter for this. He needed-

"I need you to do something for me," Neal blurted.

Peter lifted an eyebrow, sitting across from Neal in a chair. "What is it?"

"I need you to agree first." The words were out before he could think it through, and of course, Peter caught that-the desperation and the ridiculousness. To Peter's credit, he didn't mock him for it.

"Neal," said Peter patiently and sincerely, "you know I can't do that, not without knowing what it is." Peter's voice was gentle, too gentle. Neal wanted to scream. "But if you tell me what it is, and if it's reasonable and not illegal, you know I'll see what I can do."

"I-I can't-"

"Neal. Look. It's just you and me here, Neal. Just the two of us. You can tell me, you can trust me, Neal. What is it?" Peter's voice was low and deep and reassuring, lulling Neal into believing him. Neal wanted to guard against it-these were tricks, he knew these tricks, he _used_ these tricks and Peter, Peter was good, but-

"Neal. Come on, Neal. Just you and me. Talk to me." Peter's voice was deep and reassuring, and Neal was so, so tempted-

Neal took a breath, closed his eyes. "I-I need you to stop the investigation. Just-just stop it, drop it, let it go. _Please_."

"Neal. I can't do that." Peter's voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of steel.

Neal could feel the panic rising. It hadn't worked, it hadn't, he knew it wouldn't, and Crawley, Crawley was going to _die_ and it was his fault, and how could he live with himself- "Please, Peter, please, you don't understand-"

Peter cut him off ruthlessly. "I understand that he hurt you. That he could hurt others. That he probably has."

"But Peter-" Neal interrupted desperately.

"But nothing," said Peter harshly, before leaning forward, taking Neal's cold hands in his own, rubbing briskly before letting go just as abruptly, almost as if he realized what he was doing. "Neal-Neal, he _hurt_ you." Peter swallowed, and Neal could see that Peter was not nearly as calm as he was trying to appear.

"But Peter-Peter, he's a doctor. A doctor. He helps people. He helped me, too. You don't understand-I'm just a con, and he can save lives, I saw him-" He saw him help the sick, help the injured, he'd even fed Neal soup and Tylenol, once, when Neal had the flu, and Crawley stayed by him-

"Neal!" exploded Peter. "That does not give him the right-"

"Please, Peter." Neal saw an opening, tried to make his voice even and reasonable and calm. "If you continue this, if you let this happen, then others will be hurt, more than just a few, all the guys that need him-" There were a lot, Crawley could do a lot of good-

Peter sighed, and got up and crossed over to the kitchen area, opening the fridge. Neal blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Getting a beer. You used to-bingo! I hid some in your crisper."

Neal stood up, took a step forward. "You hid beer in my crisper?"

"Yeah. You know. I wanted to make sure you didn't throw it out." Peter sounded like hiding beer in your C.I's fridge was a normal thing to do.

Meanwhile, Neal was still processing. "You hid beer. In my crisper."

"Yeah. Made sense. Now. Let's talk about why you're not making any. Wine?"

Neal shook his head. "Peter-"

"Neal. Come and sit back down. Now, tell me what, exactly, will happen if we continue this investigation, and why, exactly, you don't want it to happen."

"Stop making me sound crazy." Neal's voice was bitter.

"I'm not. I am, however, trying to make you see reason." Peter sounded exasperated, but like he was trying to hide it, his words slow and deliberate.

Neal, meanwhile, was increasingly desperate to have Peter understand. "Why are you so convinced I am wrong? Please, Peter, I never meant-"

"I know, Neal. I know you didn't-but it doesn't matter, don't you see? This isn't about you-or at least, this isn't only about you. It's about him, and what he's done."

"But it doesn't matter, don't you see? It wasn't-"

"Neal. Neal, it does matter. He's not allowed to hurt you. No one gets to hurt you, not like that, not for any reason. I don't care what he told you-and yeah, this has his bullshit written all over it, but he _conned_ you, do you get it? He conned you and somehow, somehow he hurt you badly enough that you bought it. And if he did it to you, he did it someone else, and that, that alone should be enough-and he did hurt others, there were complaints, and investigations, but none of them went anywhere, because usually the victim withdrew."

"I'm not a victim," snapped Neal. "Don't say that, I, I wasn't-"

"Okay. Okay. Neal, Neal, it's okay. Because whatever happens now, whatever happens to him, it's not your fault, and it's not in your control. If it hadn't been you, it would've been someone else-he's been living on borrowed time, borrowed at your expense-and it just ran out. This isn't your fault, okay? None of this is your fault."

"But you said-" began Neal.

"Neal, you deserved to be locked up for your crimes. You did. But that was enough. That was all. That was the only consequence. You didn't deserve what happened, and you don't deserve to be punished now. I don't want you to be. Surely you can see that?"

"I don't, I don't understand-" Neal babbled in genuine confusion, overwhelmed with everything happening.

"I know," interrupted Peter. "I know you don't now, but we're going to work on that, and you will." He gripped Neal's hands in his own. "I promise, Neal, you will."

* * *

_End! Thank you to anyone who has made it this far! As always, comments, long or short, either positive or negative or both, are always appreciated. :-)_


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